Hideaway
by jakey121
Summary: 'Stories aren't true. Happy endings do not exist.' Welcome to the 70th Hunger Games!
1. Rebel Heart

**Chapter One.**

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**Hideaway;  
The 70****th**** Hunger Games.**

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**Prologue, Part One.**

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It was taking too long.

Kindra, a rebel conspirator, pondered the list in her hands with furious eyes. She crumpled the piece of paper in her hand and let it slip down from her clenched fist, falling to the floor. _What a waste of time._

They needed someone and they needed them soon. The rebels wouldn't wait forever. Plans couldn't lie in storage for another six or so decades. People grew restless. Rebels especially. Patience was a virtue, a virtue Kindra had in abundance. But her aging mind was growing just as tired as the rest of them, stewing and boiling in the shadows as they watched the Capitol dish out its punishment second, after minute, after hour, after day, after week, after month, after year. Over and over.

The Hunger Games weren't even the worst thing.

Kindra knew of a lot worse travesties that went on behind closed doors. The Hunger Games had the stamp of approval by the Capitol, broadcast across the nation because it was… sport. But the other things…

A chill went down Kindra's spine as she stood up from the fireplace, rubbed her hands together and brought them to her face. She blew into them and looked down at the piece of paper. They needed an icon. They needed not just a fighter, but a face to bring the entire revolution together. Those further up the food chain, lingering at the top as impatient as the rest of them, told her their saviour's face had to belong to a victor.

She saw the use of such a person. The poetic irony behind the potential figurehead. But no one in recent years who had made it to the end of the Games fit the bill. They were not leaders of a rebellion. They were mere children.

A child would not save the country.

The past decade had yielded no such face. No one of promise. No one that could be moulded into the leader they all needed. The rebel front would crumble into smithereens if the wrong person was put on the pedestal and forced to wield the rebellion's flag.

Micheal was too sombre. Enobaria too hostile. Zena too facetious. Rai too immature. Gloss too arrogant. Cashmere too fake. Finnick… _he had promise. _If Annie hadn't lost herself in the Arena, maybe Finnick would have worked. But with Annie's instability, Finnick was a lost cause. Elvin had followed a similar pattern. Too quiet. Too timid. Too lost in his mind to bear such a burden.

A country that needed to be united when the Games had torn them apart, there was no second chances. The Capitol had been smart by putting the Hunger Games against the Districts. It turned them against one another. It created competition and disruption in a nation that should have seen the bigger picture.

Kindra sat down on the carpet, cross-legged in front of the flames, and rubbed her hands together over the dying embers. Time was running out. Another two years, another three, four or five. They could wait that long. But another decade and they'd lose hope. Without a name to put to their leader, there was no telling what the rebels would do when they were backed into a corner. If the time came, they'd strike without proper cohesion.

Everything would die out.

As Kindra looked into the flames, she promised herself, her family, her friends and her country, that she would not let that happen. Even a woman of her age could do something. As long as she had a rebel heart, the Capitol would not win.

She'd learnt a long time ago that stories were not true. Happy endings did not exist. But in this case, for too long evil had trumped good in this world. It was time to create a better place for her children, grandchildren, and everyone else that would be born into Panem.

They needed a spark. A victor that could unleash an inferno on the Capitol and swallow the corruption whole.

They needed peace.

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**Yo ;D**

**Tis that time again for another SYOT. This one follows my canon series and marks the end of it. **_**Madhouse, Beyond the Veil, Flesh and Blood, Lonely Hour **_**(which I'm still writing) and now **_**Hideaway. **_**Who knows if I'll do anything after? I'm just proud I've come close to the finish of an actual series.**

**But yeah, the same old stuff. Here's a prologue that really doesn't matter in the slightest and won't relate to the actual story. The info is on my profile. Please read the guidelines, they are there for a reason. **

**I wasn't going to post this yet because I am still writing another SYOT. But I did the same thing for my past two SYOTs and nothing went wrong. So yes, here we go!**

**Thanks for reading, and if you're going to submit, can't wait to see what you come up with :)**


	2. The Unknown

**Chapter Two.**

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**Prologue, Part Two.**

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The unknowns were the biggest threat.

Kindra had been informed of Capitol loyalists within their very own rebellion. Loyalists that had been quickly put down with a bullet through the skull, leaving them in the dirt and shadows. They could have persuaded them back to their side. Or they could have gone for the safer option by securing their eternal silence. Taking their lives did just the trick.

That way the Capitol would not get the information they so hungered for.

She sat in front of her fireplace, once again, days after word from the Capitol had been sent to her. The piece of paper still sat, crumpled by her feet. They were losing traction. People within the Districts, scared like flocks of sheep and herds of cows, would not do anything with the Hunger Games looming so close on the horizon yet again.

As much as Kindra loathed what had to happen to those children that did not deserve such a fate, she couldn't afford the Games to be a distraction. In fact, with the Capitol so preoccupied, now was an opportune moment to gather intel and pull their forces together.

Though the innocent might not want to face the reality of what the future might hold, Kindra had others that could use the Games for the rebellion's gain. The Capitol weren't the only ones with spies.

Both sides could play the same card.

The door to her chambers opened at that moment. It creaked against the floorboards, dust motes swirled through the air as it slammed shut on its hinges, leaving Kindra and her guest in a tense silence.

She'd been offered District Eight's Mayor's house. Kindra had come from poverty. She would not insult those that were still suffering by plotting amongst riches.

She looked over her shoulder and smiled warmly in the direction of her newest guest. Though Kindra's age was slowly getting the best of her, she still had it in her to work well amongst those that were more vocal about their loyalty, and those that thrived by being inconspicuous.

"Ma'am."

She had a soft voice, when she nodded at Kindra, sitting in the worn armchair opposite her. She was an odd sight amongst all this wear and tear. Although she was disguised in a brown shawl, her hair tied up in a bun on top of her head, the colour of her eyes and shine in her cheeks gave her birthplace away if you looked close enough.

Still, she was useful. More than useful.

"Don't call me ma'am," Kindra laughed, gently. "I'm nothing more than Kindra, your rebel friend."

"I don't like the word rebel. Makes our cause sound… dirty."

"Dirty?" The older woman laughed again.

The fireplace lit up the two of them in a red glow. Kindra, hardened through experience, fighting a war for far too long without the Capitol knowing, and this young thing. She had so much to learn. Fourteen years old and working for the rebellion. Unheard of.

"The Capitol calls you rebels. I don't want to label our cause with the same title such a place gives you."

"You're from such a place."

"I am," she nodded. "Still, my heart is with the Districts. Now and forever."

"Good to hear."

They were stalling.

Kindra wouldn't admit to it but she was nervous. The information spies gathered could make or break a cause. If they had intelligence of the Capitol's knowledge of their rebellion's movement too early, they would fracture under their attack. But vice versa, if they were told the opposite, they knew they were doing their jobs well.

She looked into her eyes, hoping to see something of what she'd gathered for their cause. The Capitol rarely looked within their own city for rebel accomplices. The government would always be under strict watch but never the citizens.

They were too proud for their own good. The President would never believe that his grasp over his people would ever be contested with. Those that lived in the Capitol didn't know any better. The Games were a television show. Exciting. A game to laugh and hunger for.

How little he knew of the real world.

"You looked scared."

Kindra bit her lip. In front of anyone else, weakness was not an option. She wasn't the leader of their fight against the Capitol, but she was important. If she faltered, others would follow.

But something made it easier to show such a thing in front of the girl before her. Possibly because she was the only one who would even propose Kindra was scared. Perhaps because she was only a little girl. Perhaps because she felt sorry for her. Pulled into a battle that would ruin her childhood.

Whatever the reason, Kindra nodded and then smiled. "We can only be brave when we're scared. Otherwise there'd be no reason for courage."

"I suppose."

Kindra watched her shuffle forwards in her armchair. She kept her eyes trained on her every movement, every flicker of emotion in her eyes, cast under the shadow of her shawl. Everything. Spies were dangerous people. Even one of her age.

But her worries about her accomplice soon turned to nerves over their situation. She smiled when she met Kindra's eyes and moved her hand towards her arm.

She handed her a piece of paper, tucked into her sleeve. A very important piece of paper. That's all it seemed to be these days. Pieces of paper that could change a war.

Kindra's eyes hovered over the words, letter by letter, until a smile curled into her cheeks. Good news made her heart warm. They hadn't had good news in a long time.

"I hope everything's in order, ma'am?"

Kindra nodded. "There's that ma'am again. What should I call you, dear? After all this time, I still don't know your name."

The young girl laughed, hidden behind her hand, those bright eyes glistening in the firelight. She'd been blinded like so many others. The Games had been everything to her naïve, oblivious mind.

Until she'd seen the truth. Until she'd opened her eyes.

"Teanna," she smiled. "My name is Teanna."

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**A second prologue!**

**I don't normally do these but with a three week wait between the first chapter and the intended second, I thought I'd add something in. To keep things going, I guess.**

**Those who read Lonely Hour hopefully remember Teanna. She's back in a vastly different way! **

**Submissions are still open. Anyone who hasn't already and wants to, feel free to send in a form. Or two. Or three. Only one per submitter will be accepted, but there's no limit on how many you can send in. **

**Thanks to all those that have submitted so far! The tributes are looking great :D**


	3. My Gun

**Chapter Three.**

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**Prologue, Part Three.**

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Teanna had made her decision a long time ago.

Ten years wasn't much compared to the grizzled veterans that were the heart of the rebellion. Ten years were practically nothing on Kindra and her service, her sheer dedication to their cause to be admired and revered.

But those ten years meant everything to Teanna.

They were ten years she could have carried on playing with those awful dolls of hers, tweaking their perfect hair, posing them in plastic toy Arenas she could have bought, on and on in a cycle, growing more and more lost as the years went by.

But instead, Teanna had rebelled against her mother one morning, let the real truth of the Games become a part of her life, and joined something even her mother would never be able to comprehend. Teanna was good at playing pretend. Tea parties with her dolls when she was a deluded child, and now she was a teenage girl, smiling and acting the charming air-head so no one would think otherwise.

The truth: she gathered information for the rebellion. Every single day, one domino would fall and hit another, the chain going round and round, from the start when the Hunger Games had come into place, and the end where they would be destroyed.

Kindra and everyone else would make sure there was no more Capitol to pick up the pieces. The Games had to be totally eradicated, something Teanna was more than happy to help with. What she'd witnessed as a four year old girl, realizing she needed to fully understand and observe the Games in all their glory, had shocked and stunned her to her very core.

A four year old girl watching a thirteen year old, her same gender, nine years her senior, get burned at the stake… Teanna had watched with watery eyes because she couldn't not watch. Because something changed in her that day, something that compelled her to witness what she had bought into.

That day, she'd promised herself to never support the Games again. If an innocent girl, from a place that was lost to poverty, could get shipped away and tortured in such a gruesome manner, then Teanna knew that it could just as well have happened to her and her friends if the Districts had installed the Games in place of the Capitol.

The world needed to change. The rebellion was the only way. The truest path for Teanna to take, her ambition to see peace at the centre of everything she was.

But first, she had to return to the Capitol. She had to play the average girl, in a dreamy haze that people would buy into, and bide her time. When she had more information, it would be time to leave again. And onwards it would go.

Until the time was right.

Then, Teanna would do whatever had to be done. Risk her life, even. For the sake of justice, regardless if she was a fourteen year girl, nothing more than a teenager. She was ready for the war to come.

Horror had become the norm for far too long. It was time for a new world. A world where hope could reign supreme.

Where prosperity would catch fire, engulfing Panem in a better, safer, reality.

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**Quick thing to say before the tribute list. I just want to apologise to those that weren't accepted. Honestly, this time round I think it's been the hardest of all my SYOTs to choose who to take. I wanted way more than twenty-four, so I had to cut out some that I actually genuinely wanted to write for. To those that aren't in this, I really am sorry. **

**But to those that are, congratulations and I can't wait to get into the rest of Hideaway. Here are the tributes!**

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**Tribute List.**

**District One:**

Male- Alston Cornett _(TitanMaddix)_

Female- Riena Ledwell _(Aspect of One)_

**District Two:**

Male- Uriah Valore _(Jalen Kun)_

Female- Diantha Cravelle _(Remus98)_

**District Three:**

Male- Huxley Cross _(HalwenBelle)_

Female- Andryn Vitalli _(nevergone4ever)_

**District Four:**

Male- Theon Devalera _(DA Member Hogwarts)_

Female- Romina Charette _(Foxface5)_

**District Five: **

Male- Barnaby Miller _(Katrace)_

Female- Nevaeh Blume _(JGrayzz)_

**District Six:**

Male- Cade Grayson _(Liquidation)_

Female- Amaya Devlin _(bobothebear)_

**District Seven:**

Male- Travis Sauver _(District11-Olive)_

Female- Petra Peverett _(felicitea)_

**District Eight:**

Male- Arick Greige _(Author of Ice and Fire)_

Female- Zeara Kadnell _(SomeDays)_

**District Nine:**

Male- Hale Cheshire _(deathless .smile)_

Female- Clytie Torrence _(Fifidear)_

**District Ten:**

Male- Phris Cantle _(Littletimmy223)_

Female- Audria Kivare _(Sunlight Comes Creeping In)_

**District Eleven:**

Male- Emigdio Santiago _(kopycat101)_

Female- Fira Trevalle _(GlimmerIcewood)_

**District Twelve:**

Male- Gwilym Collier _(A M4D TE4-P4RTY)_

Female- Delora Verone _(LokiThisIsMadness)_

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**Blog link is on my profile! If it's not showing straight away, you can always find it on my blogger profile which you can access by going through one of my other blogs. Also, new Victors added to my Victor's blog. Quite a few are familiar faces! Oh, also, I do tend to make mistakes on the blog unintentionally, typos or whatever, so if anyone spots any let me know :)**

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_**Favourites from the blog?**_

_**Least favourites from the blog?**_

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**There you have it, the batch of tributes for the last entry to my canon series! I love them all, so I'm excited to get this underway!**

**Like I did for Lonely Hour's prologue where the blog was announced, this is shorter as well. This is mainly just so the blog can have a chapter to be released alongside. Although it was fun to return to Teanna, the little brat from my last story ;o**

**One last apology to those who didn't get in, I genuinely mean it ;_;**

**A final thanks to everyone. Those who got in and those that were rejected.**

**Onwards with the story!**


	4. Soft Control

**Chapter Four.**

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**Pre-Reapings, Part One.**

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**Riena Ledwell, 18 years old;  
District One Female.**

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At two o'clock in the morning, the Ledwell's party was still powering through the evening.

Amongst District One's finest citizens, every year on the eve before the reaping, the chosen female's family would throw the most splendid of all events for those that were close to their future volunteers.

Riena, being the girl who would volunteer later that very afternoon, hadn't had any choice but to tolerate the affair and get on with what had to be done. It had never been a case of her disliking the camaraderie and friendship her peers surprisingly demonstrated towards her, despite not being chosen after years of training. It was purely the fact Riena's energy was draining and she'd never been one for the spotlight anyway.

As always, however, it managed to consistently find its way towards her. On tonight of all nights, there would be no way of avoiding it.

Alston had made his speech, charming and energetic as always. The drunk people sang his name and the party girls fanned their glowing cheeks, chanting dumb praise alongside the intoxicated. Riena wrapped hers up rather quickly, something her mother especially would chide her for eventually. Rather than worry about that, however, Riena quickly descended down the marble steps towards the plaza, where her closest friends were waiting for her.

Persistent as ever, Riena had to wade through gowned women reaching out to offer their congratulations, and potential suitors thinking they'd ever have a chance with a girl who'd rather she never had to see them again.

"Yes, yes, thank you. It means so much to hear you say that," Riena said, through gritted teeth, practically forcing false enthusiasm into her tone. Another gloved hand stroked her arm and she nearly threw herself sideways to avoid contact. _Another hour or two, then you'll be free from this._

Then it would be time to volunteer.

She'd been prepped all her life for the Games. There would never be a time where Riena could doubt herself. If someone going to their potential death started to falter over their choices, it would be a one-way trip, away from family and friends and into the Arena. Death was too terrifying. Riena kept a smile on her face and powered towards Carissa and Lydia.

"If your mother hadn't pressured you into training, I'm sure you'd be married already," Carissa whispered, pulling Riena towards the side, where Lydia trailed, hiccupping and struggling to stand on two feet.

"Someone's been drinking too much," Riena giggled, "I told you not to, just this one night Lyd'."

"And I told you," Lydia staggered, burping, "That… you- um. That you… I love you girls. Looove you. I really do."

"There she goes," Carissa couldn't help but smile when Lydia vomited all over her dress shoes. Riena was free from the projectile spew thanks to a well-timed jump backwards. Even if one of her friends was a party-addict, Riena valued their company more than she did anyone else's.

No one seemed to ever let her have the freedom to be whatever she wanted to be. Training never gave anyone an escape, and as determined as she had been through her teenage years to be the best of the best, Riena was more content to be with two people than fifty or a hundred.

Yet, on her family went, on her District went, dragging her into these situations that made her stomach roil and her heart beat fast against her chest. She knew the words to say. The looks to give. The flutter of her eyelashes, the way her hips had to be posed. She knew all that because everyone in District One had to know that to make it anywhere.

But she didn't want any of that. She didn't want anything but her ditzy, drunk of a friend, and her intelligent, self-assured bestie to her right.

If there was one thing Riena prided herself over, above all things, was the fact she knew when enough was enough. Even when some didn't and would never understand, this was one of those moments. Riena held Lydia's hair back, over her shoulders as she emptied her stomach.

"We need to get her inside before someone sees her," Riena whispered, towards Carissa, "She'll never live it down if _certain _individuals catch her like this."

"We could-"

Riena pointed further down the right hand side, where the steps veered upwards and back into the house. Carissa nodded and propped Lydia over one shoulder, helping her balance out as she gurgled and spat wads of sick and spit on the grass.

There could potentially have been people waiting up where they were headed, but Riena hoped and prayed they were the older guests, too tired to join the crowds below. On the other side, there was a longer route that would eventually lead to the front door. A better way into the house, but a riskier route.

Riena preferred to not jump to such things if there was another possibility. For the sake of her friend, she persevered, even when her heel slipped in the contents of Lydia's stomach, and together with Carissa's aid, they headed for the steps.

And then, before they could do anything about it, the three were abruptly called to a stop.

Riena sighed angrily, turning to get a good look at two boys that had stepped up to them. She recognised them immediately – two boys who were jealous of Alston for being chosen, and in turn, annoyed that Riena was also going into the Games.

Wherever they could shift the blame of their defeat, they would always find a target before pointing the fingers at their own failures.

"If you can't hold her up, you could always let us help her along. We'll find a place for her."

Carissa's nose wrinkled. She wouldn't say anything. Any other time, Riena would calmly swallow down her flaring temper and continue on, ignoring whoever tried to irritate her. But her mood had already soured with this dreadful evening, she was already on the very cusp of screaming into her hair, and she did not need some creepy guys potentially kidnapping her best friend to have their sick way with her.

_Enough is enough._

"If you lay a single finger on my friend here," Riena stepped forward, Carissa having to carry the whole weight of Lydia under her frail shoulders, "I will personally show you exactly why I was chosen to volunteer. I suggest you back off before something happens. Two boys getting beaten up by a girl might make you realise exactly who you really are and where you should stick your stunted little-"

"Riena, that's enough!" Carissa half shouted, half laughed at the sight of the two boys running away, cursing and muttering under their breaths.

When it came to herself, Riena would never let a person walk all over her, even if she knew right from wrong. But when it came to someone she loved, more than anything, hell would have to freeze over before she let anyone step over her and get their grubby little paws on them.

Maybe that was why Riena was chosen.

She had fire inside her gut; unconventional sure; but the fire burned hot.

Every Career needed that spark.

* * *

**Huxley Cross, 14 years old;  
District Three Male.**

* * *

It was early morning, half past seven precisely, with the sun starting to creep out from behind the clouds.

As the Crosses prepared for breakfast, mother, daughter and son in the same room, there came a sharp rapping on the front door.

Ada Cross, without lifting her head from where she was cooking, pointed a stern finger in the direction of their household's hallway and addressed her son. "Answer the door, Huxley."

He knew there was no point in doing anything else. He pushed himself away from the dining table, patted down a crease in his wrinkled, crisp blue shirt, and walked towards the entranceway to their house. Besides, it was only answering the front door, how hard could it be?

When he did so, a tall, curvaceous young woman stood on the front step. The moment Huxley's eyes met the chest of this remarkably giant person, he blushed and took a step back. "I… er- Um-" His voice squeaked out automatically, his cheeks in response only growing brighter and redder with embarrassment.

Luckily, whoever she was didn't seem to mind. In fact, she took a step forwards and pinched his cheek, ruffling his hair with a cheerful laugh. "You must be little Hux'. Xena doesn't shut up about you."

_My older sister, mind of a scientist, mouth like a sailor. _"Does she- I mean… who… who are you?" Huxley looked at the spot before his own feet and in front of hers. If a hole would just open up, maybe the world could spin a little faster, this girl would go away, and Huxley could vanish from what was supposed to be something anyone else should easily be able to do. Instead, he was making a fool of himself in front of a very… beautiful girl.

_And she pinched my cheek! _He wasn't sure if he was supposed to feel proud someone like her had even touched him, or curl his lip at the blatant patronization she had for him. Either way, she was pretty. Huxley didn't meet many pretty girls. They usually stayed away from him, like he had a disease they could catch with a single stare in his direction.

"The name's Deslyn. Or just call me Des'. Whatever works for you, cutie."

Huxley gulped. "I don't think you should call me-"

Before Huxley could finish his sentence, there was a loud whooping sound behind him, before his sister tossed him sideways like a discarded toy, and threw her arms around Des' shoulders.

"You bitch, half past seven? Really? I was just about to get my hands into some-"

"Excuse me, Xena Cross, you don't excuse yourself from the table, you ask for permission."

Huxley, Xena and Des both looked back into the Cross household as the matriarch of the family stormed down the hallway, lips pursed and arms crossed round her chest. Immediately, Huxley slunk back into the building, nodded his apology, and hid behind his mother's back. Xena stood her ground with a smirk and an eye-roll: two components paving the way for a disaster.

Ada was not a woman to cross. Whether it came to the field of science, or wasted breakfast food.

"Whoever you are, I suggest you leave my house at once and return at a suitable time."

Anyone else, especially the people Huxley associated with, would have turned tail and ran. Better to keep your head on your shoulders; facing the wrath of a woman like his mother was not a good thing to do. Huxley knew better than to cross those that were above him. He knew his place in society and knew it well.

Des and Xena, however, were not like Huxley. They were not like anyone he'd ever known, met or seen. The fact they were anomalies amongst their home District piqued Huxley's interest, and all but terrified him at the same time.

"If you let me go out with my friend, I won't put salt in your evening cup of tea." Xena stood up to her mother and laughed, "Oh come on, smile mother. That excuse for a fried egg you think I want to eat can wait another time."

Des was about to back up her friend. Instead, before she could get a word out of her mouth, Ada had an arm round her daughter's shoulder and in they went, one of them stern and strong, the other fighting and lashing out.

The front door closed on poor Des, and that was it. Huxley had to sit through an entire argument until the two of them calmed down. He kept his head buried in his breakfast, taking hurried sips of his orange juice as the palpable tension threatened to choke him at any moment.

_Why can't they just get along? Is it so much to ask for? People… I just don't understand them… _

"As punishment for your behaviour, Xena, you are not permitted to leave the house after today's reaping."

She was about to protest. With one look from her mother, and one panicked look from Huxley across the table, she bit her lip and scowled down at her placemat.

"And you, Huxley. I hope you'll get straight back to work after this dull affair is over. Marking today as a holiday is a stupid notion. Work comes first."

"Before death?" Xena chuckled, darkly, "Yeah, work comes before little kids being chopped up."

_And there she goes again. _Huxley wanted to shrink back into the confines of his room at the top of the stairs. There he could smile and laugh and cheer himself up without having to be in the presence of two people on the verge of ripping each other's throats out. He had his own mind, a mind that could be his best friend and never cause trouble for Huxley.

But, living in a family like theirs, with a mother who needed her children to bolster their reputation, meant Huxley could not do whatever he liked. He had his place in the world. He had his duties, and as much as he wanted to protest like Xena, he kept everything in. Because there was never a point.

Not around certain individuals. Not many would ever understand.

As breakfast came to an end, their mother put on a last batch of tea and waited patiently for it to boil. Xena, not able to resist, winked at her brother once more, and turned to face Ada.

"You know what they say, mother. A watched pot never boils. Thought you'd know that one by now."

She didn't even give her daughter the satisfaction of returning eye contact. Instead, she straightened her shoulders, all tense and prepared, and merely continued to gaze at her tea. "You know what they say, Xena. An idiotic daughter never prospers. Sometimes I don't know why I bother."

_Another family breakfast in the good ol' Cross household._

Could things get any worse?

* * *

**Petra Peverett, 12 years old;  
District Seven Female.**

* * *

When given a job to do, Petra usually did it without question.

This, however, was a little more of a stretch.

"Inform your brother's boss that he needs to come back home," Petra's father cupped her cheek affectionately, ruffling her hair and playfully pushing her small form towards the door. Still, underneath everything, Petra was always her nervous self, and this was no exception. "It's important he gets here as soon as possible."

She was off before anything else could be said between the two of them. Petra was quick on her feet. She dilly-dallied a lot, overthinking pretty much whichever choice was presented to her, but whatever the case, Petra hated to leave something unfinished. Not only would she disappoint those who wanted something from her, she'd disappoint herself. Petra hated to be a second rate version of what she could potentially become.

The air was cold and crisp, a light breeze lashed Petra's cheeks as she sprinted through the lower town and towards Sector A's forest. It was a long trek through her home, but Petra was used to it. As much as her brother, Peder, irritated her beyond belief, Petra was devoted to her family and friends. If they needed him for something, then it wasn't for her to say no.

On the way towards the forest, Petra had to pass through countless throngs of people, moving to and fro from where they had started and where they were going. Most just wanted an excuse to distract themselves from impending doom.

The majority of the population would be safe for the year. In fact, it would only be two of thousands taken from this place and forced into the death match. But worry was a common thing for Petra. With every glum, miserable set of eyes, betraying the truth that was hidden behind false smiles, Petra's stomach flipped nervously. She wasn't ready for her first reaping. The world was an awful place and the Hunger Games only increased that a hundredfold.

She was only one small girl in a sea of bigger folk. There wasn't anything she could do about it. That was the thing Petra recognised the most, as she neared the border of the District and rushed through the last groups of strangers. There was always something that could go wrong. Good or bad, bad would prevail because that was the choice people and life itself usually made.

_My chances are so small. Insignificant. Nothing, really. A speck amongst a million other much larger specks. Get the job done, focus on your brother, smile and become blissfully ignorant like everyone else your age._

But she couldn't.

Petra was Petra. Even if she wanted to change, there would never be an easier path forwards.

It was a steep incline up to the forest's border. On foot it was a pain. On small, twelve year old feet, it was much more of a trial. Petra didn't complain. She made not a single noise on her trek towards her brother's workforce. As her feet started to ache with the strength she had to put into her march, not a whimper could be heard in the wind.

Finally, at the very top, Petra saw the first sign of lumberjack activity. Petra's heart continued to thunder against her ribcage. On and on it went, the harsh beating not helping the nerves in her stomach. Lumberjacks were bigger, harsher version of the people she'd learnt to put up with below, in the main part of Seven.

Her brother was a dolt, and this happened to be the capital of Dolt country. They always wanted something – people, human beings. Petra waved courteously and smiled her sweet, timid little grin that had become her defence mechanism to shield herself.

It was an odd sight, of course. A little girl amongst a tide of brick-like young men, chatting gruffly as they hacked and cut their way through District Seven's pride and joy.

She looked out at her surroundings, quickly and with a sharp eye. It took her mere seconds for the person she had to speak with to present himself. He had no sign of his importance, but Petra made it places by understanding how things had to work. Who to look for. What certain individuals were like.

He practically reeked with self-entitlement.

When Petra presented herself to him, he looked at her with a frown, spitting something out the side of his mouth with a grunt. "What's a young thing like you doing up here?"

_And they say the lumberjack stereotype is unfounded? These guys are practically savages. _"Hello sir, I've come here with a message from my father."

"And what message would that be?"

_Strong. Keep on being strong. _Petra's brow started to sweat. There was always something in her exchanges with people that gave her nerves away. If society had a thing for exploiting the weak, Petra had made it her goal in life to secure herself a place amongst people by being what they wanted. A polite, personable young thing who knew where she stood.

But there was always something that went wrong. Anxiety went hand in hand with disasters waiting to happen.

"My father is Mr Peverett. I've been told, if you would be so kind sir, to come ask for my brother to be given leave to come with me."

She expected him to curse her away, wave his hand like a Peacekeeper would, or box her ear. Instead, she didn't anticipate the high-pitched spluttering, something that came close to hysteria, to draw a crowd towards the two of them.

Petra's cheeks went bright red. _Tell my brother he can leave and let me go you creep!_

"This ain't no military camp. Calm down with all tha' fancy talk. Peder!" He turned to face a group of boys, young and chiselled, gawping at the man in charge. "Stop that damn drooling, you ain' no idiot. Drop that axe and get on home with your sister. Ye' old man needs you."

Petra muttered her thanks before he could turn back to focus his attention on her. She hated making a fool of herself because that was not something hardworking people did. Those girls like Petra did everything they could so they would never be looked down upon, they would never be used, they would never become pawns for those selfish enough to do whatever it took for survival.

This might have been the world she was growing up in, but Petra had her own ways of making it step after step. And she ruined it every time, because she couldn't keep herself controlled enough before they stopped looking.

_At least I never have to return here again._

Peder was grinning.

Petra gave him one lasting look, her brow furrowed with anger.

"Shut up."

He didn't say anything else. Neither did she.

* * *

**Gwilym Collier, 18 years old;  
District Twelve Male.**

* * *

Defeated and forgotten, District Twelve's spirits were a thing of the past.

Collectively, those that lived within the Seam looked like a bunch of crestfallen miners, rigid and stuck in a way of life that had long been a part of their identity. It was consistency for the sake of progress.

Gwilym, somewhere near the west side of the District, sat with his best friend on a swing, his feet kicking up and down, gently with each push. It was a glum place he lived, and Gwilym himself never strived to make something impossible out of it. This was the way things were – for Gwilym, the future was a dreadful prospect, but a pointless ideal nonetheless. Rather, he preferred to focus on the present.

The present he could work with.

"They all look so scared," Gwilym's lip curled, dissatisfaction on his face, "It's like they aren't aware of how small a chance that she'll choose any of them."

"Doesn't make a difference, Gwilym. They're still people. People who see things for the way are – hopeless and terrifying."

Gwilym grunted, swinging back and then propelling himself forwards, through the air and landing with control on his two feet. Lowri quickly followed and stood beside him, hands on the fence as the two of them gazed out at their home. _It makes sense why some find no place. _Gwilym was determined, even if optimism wasn't his thing, to at least _do _something. If he didn't do anything with his life, then the here and now didn't matter.

Lowri pointed out two short, round specks in the distance. The smog and dust coating the air, a thick black veil shrouding the District, made it hard for either of them to see who it was. Only when they were close enough, did a small smirk make its way onto Gwilym's otherwise clenched jaw.

Lowri, Rhodri, and Rhys. The only people in the world who truly mattered. Even then, sometimes that was a push.

"I could see you waddling from here," Gwilym joked, only half honest. "Can't deal with your parents?"

The twins shook their heads, frowning. "Much too quiet in there."

"Not that either of you are the loudest of people."

Gwilym stepped left when Rhys brushed past, silent for the most part, sitting down on the swing and moving through the air. They were good friends – the best of friends – but that didn't make it any less easy for Gwilym to see where they went wrong in their lives.

Gwilym was not perfect, not by any means. But he didn't think or feel like most people. Lowri had a subtle cunning, along with a warm empathy mixed into it, which made her a force to be reckoned with if you got on the wrong side of her. But the other two – even Rhodri's intelligence had its peak.

Gwilym couldn't help but see everyone the same way. Picking and prodding at them like a fussy customer, torn on what to order. He did things his way, in Twelve. Because most of the time, his way worked out for the best.

His way made sure, however intolerable it might be, that a future would actually be waiting for him. First, his last reaping. Then he would be free. _Not that I ever cared for the event, slim chances, little worry, no problem. _Not many shared his outlook on today, either.

Lowri and Rhodri went to join Rhys. Without a fourth swing, Gwilym leaned back against the fence, arms crossed round his chest as he glanced over them all in turn. "So, do we have anything on our minds for today?"

"Apart from the reaping?" Rhodri asked, blunt and to the point.

Gwilym nodded. "We can be like everyone else and drift through the District until we're called to come, or we can do something to pass the time."

Rhys would never have an idea outside of standing still, or sitting quietly. Rhodri probably had some math homework that needed attending to, the twins still being at school and seeing education as a way out. An impossible notion, but respectable.

Lowri on the other hand, when Gwilym turned to face her, had that spark in her eye he'd grown to pick out from ten feet away. It was hard to miss. Unfortunately, it usually meant trouble. As much as Gwilym found most things dull and trite, getting into unnecessary trouble was just that to Gwilym – unnecessary.

He didn't like risking much. Something he shared with the twins, two boys who valued logic and forward thinking than jumping into the fray without a plan.

Still, he let her speak.

"My mother's locked up the house, gone somewhere with her new boyfriend. But you know where she keeps the spare keys, Gwilym. You've seen me move them just to annoy her," she giggled, a cheerful, childish sound. "I say we go in, maybe _borrow _a bottle of alcohol or two, and sell it to the big boys around the District."

"Big boys?" Gwilym raised an eyebrow, frowning.

"As in bigger than you."

"I'm eighteen," Gwilym said, annoyance slipping into his voice. An adult now. Practically more mature than most of the miners that had been wasting away for decades. Most around the District said experience procured wisdom. Gwilym had very different ideas on what made a person smart.

"Still," Lowri shrugged, casually, "She's got a big stock and not enough hours of consciousness to realise anything's missing. We can make some actual money."

"I'm surprised you don't want to drink it."

Gwilym had seen Lowri do a lot, whether she would follow her mother's footsteps or not, it wasn't for him to say. She very well could end up like her, though. He usually expected the worst out of everyone. Even when they proved him otherwise.

"I don't drink away potential money."

"And I don't steal and risk the attention of the Peacekeepers," Gwilym had already made up his mind, finality creeping into his tone. Lowri noticed it too, sighing and bringing her swing to a halt. "Why put our necks on the line when we don't really know?"

"Because it's fun?"

"I call it stupid."

Most would never agree to what Gwilym had to say. Most wouldn't even like him. He didn't need their attention and he didn't need their love. But he knew, in his heart, that he had his head screwed on right and visualized the best way to go about anything.

They didn't have to listen. As long as he kept true to his path, then he'd actually get to live in this shitty world for a lot longer than most people.

For Gwilym, that was more than enough.

* * *

**Oh fanfiction, baring your claws for those charming blog reviews :')**

**Thanks for all the support so far, honestly it's been amazing! Here we have the first four tributes, it'd be great to hear what you all think :D**


	5. Harder We Fall

**Chapter Five.**

* * *

**Pre-Reapings, Part Two.**

* * *

**Alston Cornett, 18 years old;  
District One Male.**

* * *

_The Ledwells sure know how to throw a party._

Alston had one hand to his temple, his fingers rubbing against his skin to ease the pain. Baptiste, his best friend, had an arm round his shoulder to keep Alston steady and focused on the path in front of them.

At least they'd had fun. One night of fun before he took a step into darkness. That was all Alston had asked for. _I guess wishes do come true._

He tried to laugh but the sound only made his headache intensify. Instead, he smacked his lips together, croaked the strangest of noises, and stumbled up to his front door.

"You really need to learn how to control yourself," Baptiste said, his voice straining under the weight of his friend.

Alston shrugged his shoulders. "I'll control myself when I'm out of here. Give me this one night."

"I did. Never again."

"Yeah," Alston winked, chuckling as pain raged through his entire body, "I'd promise to be a good boy, but unfortunately I don't really know how to keep them."

When he pushed open his front door, he knew what sight would greet him. Most people would be welcomed, even after drowning in alcohol, by loving parents eagerly awaiting the Reaping where their Career son would go off and make them proud.

Only, Alston happened to belong to a family controlled by some of the only people who didn't give a rat's ass about the Hunger Games. _Mummy and daddy issues, everyone's got something holding them back._

"Let me guess," his father stood by the stairway, one hand on the railing, his lips pursed, with controlled anger flaring in his eyes, "The idea that you have to represent your District today for this foul affair didn't seem to matter to you. Instead you do-"

"Father, do your son a favour, please, from one loving member of the Cornett family to another, and lower your volume. There's a monkey playing drums in my skull. It. Hurts."

"What did I say?" Alston's mother waved him off, turning to go, angry of course, yet like always, she barely even looked at him anymore, "You let him go to this party. You deal with him."

"He's our son."

"And now your responsibility."

The kitchen door slammed shut, leaving Alston, his father, and Baptiste who stood behind his best friend, shadowed and forgettable. Until Alston staggered inside, revealing Baptiste's presence.

"Ah, I assume you got him here?"

"Yes sir."

Enoch Cornett nodded, wrinkling his nose in Alston's direction, then moved for Baptiste. "Thank you. He needs people like you around to reign him in."

The two of them spoke a little more, acting as if Alston couldn't hear every word they said. Baptiste was a loyal friend. He didn't say anything when it came to veiled insults. He dealt with Alston's father a lot better than Alston ever had.

There were many reasons that factored into the way Alston had grown up. He drank, like most other teenagers, because he liked drinking. He trained because he had been born into a District that was proud of its heritage, a heritage he admired and wanted to bolster with his commitment.

But underneath this all, as he looked at his father from where he stood, his smug, red-nosed, businessman-like face go on and on, Alston had always had other reasons beneath the surface. He didn't do well with people trying to put a label on him, people who tried to store him away, lock the door and keep him contained.

_Typical teenagers. They'll grow out of it. _Every parent said the same thing about their unruly kids. The only difference was, for Alston this wasn't a phase, because he liked himself just the way he was. He'd crafted this Alston, the one that had been for many years.

He did things for himself. He rebelled.

And if someone challenged him when vodka shots were put on a table, Alston would never, ever, ever say no. Like last night. The reason for this godawful hangover.

He focused back in on his father and Baptiste. When his friend offered him a sympathetic stare, followed by a subtle smile, Alston nodded back and raised his hand to say goodbye. "See you later, I'll be out of prison in a few hours."

The door slammed shut. "Oh do grow up, you aren't a child."

"And you aren't in any position to tell me to grow up. No one wears trousers that high at your age."

His father blushed when Alston moved for the living room, laughing and moaning in pain at the same time. He could hear the horrific sound of his mother preparing some kind of breakfast. Underneath it all, she did care. She'd make something to soak up the alcohol and ensure her son wasn't in much pain for the most important part of his life.

That, he knew about his mother.

What he knew about his father, however, he didn't like. They were quite a bizarre family.

"You know how we feel about the Games. We didn't want you to sign up so there you went, aged twelve, marching into that establishment all cocky and self-assured, thinking the world owed you something."

"It did. It does."

"The least you could do, now that you're about to volunteer, is care about how you come across. Do you…" he faltered, something that made Alston curious, nervous, and almost frightened. His father did not hesitate. Not ever. "Do you want to die…?"

_Oh._

Alston tried to laugh again. Only this time it was less convincing. "Look, father. I've trained with the best, fought with the best weapons, and scored the best in all our tests. I know what I'm doing. This is just a kid who's signed up for a death match unwinding before he takes the jump."

His father and everyone doubted so much about Alston. And the more they doubted, the more he acted like this. The world had its boundaries, and in Alston's mind, those boundaries did not exist. He overstepped without knowing he had. He did things for the sake of doing something.

But he knew what he had to do, in the Games. He knew how things worked.

"I might surprise you," he said, smiling at his father's pale face, "You know one side of me. Watch your television in a few days' time and see another. I did inherit something from my darling parents."

"And that is?"

He winked as he went to leave the room. "Wait and see. I'd hate to spoil the show."

And what a show it would be.

* * *

**Zeara Kadnell, 17 years old;  
District Eight Female.**

* * *

The weather matched what today would bring.

It was a cold day, with thick rain clouds rolling in from above the rooftops. Soon enough, maybe in a few hours when the Reaping began, Zeara and the rest of District Eight would be drenched to the bone. Zeara didn't mind. Maybe then people would stop all this laughter.

She was sat somewhere near the centre of the District, on a bench with a notebook in her lap, a pencil tapping her chin as her other hand nervously hit away at her side. Between a ring of trees, stunted and twisted, three girls from her grade at school were laughing merrily together.

She hated the sight of it. She envied the sight of it. She wanted them to stop.

Zeara didn't barge her way into situations and force others to do what she longed for, however. Rather, she let her eyes narrow whenever they moved over their little gathering, between happy laughs and twinkling eyes, lost behind whatever fantasy they craved. She was writing down nonsense, not really paying attention to anything but the world around her.

Like the impending weather, it was rather fitting that Zeara's home District was such a bleak place, and in her heart, she was just that sort of person. No matter what she refused to uncover within herself, on the outside, she hated the pretend and dishonesty some people let themselves live with.

Their pretty bows and pretty hair and pretty dresses. They didn't _see _things for how they were. They woke up today, even though it was the Reaping, and acted as if the world would keep on spinning, nothing could go wrong, and everything was a dream come true.

Maybe that was why she had no friends. Zeara didn't need them if they were only going to hold her back. All she had to do was look out, right in front of her, surrounded by beautiful flowers, the only real beauty in Eight, and see for herself what it would be like if Zeara let herself believe in something else.

She couldn't do that. It would only lead to more pain.

At least this way, she could lie to herself and everyone that she was something else. They left her alone when she was like this.

Occasionally, as the minutes trickled into a full hour since she'd taken her place on the bench, Peacekeepers would walk past. Zeara knew they were headed for the Reaping, an event that would lead up to their highlight of the year, but it made her even more jittery than usual. Her fingers continued to frantically tap away at her hip, stuck on a loop.

She didn't like the Peacekeepers. She didn't like the idea that they had so much control, and at the snap of a finger, they could turn her life upside down and ruin it more than it already had been. The girls in front of her seemed to pay them no heed. Another thing she realised she was jealous about, before kidding herself into believing she wasn't at all.

Blissful and oblivious were two things she didn't allow herself to be. With every pack of Peacekeepers, she thought about what they could do to her, for the stupidest of reasons, and nearly stood up and ran away, leaving her notebook behind.

But the girls would talk about that. They'd talk about weird Zeara Kadnell, maybe steal her notebook and show the random scribbles at school tomorrow. She wouldn't allow them the satisfaction. Their lives were already too perfect for their own good, hidden behind whatever kind of wall they wanted to build up.

Rather than run away, Zeara tried to steady her moving hand, and crossed one leg over the other, patient and relaxed. At least, she thought that was how she looked. Honestly, she didn't know the meaning of the word relaxed.

When they did look up at her, the prettiest of them all catching her eye, Zeara quickly glanced down at her lap and pretended to be otherwise preoccupied. If anything, the only reason she was here was to distract herself from everything else.

The Reaping made Zeara more uncomfortable than she cared to admit. At least underneath the clouds, she could stomach her fear and deal with it. Boxed up and held inside her shack of a house would only make things worse.

Unless these girls got their claws in first.

"You're that Kadnell girl, aren't you?"

_We've been in the same grade for nearly ten years. I know you and you don't even know me. _It was typical. _Not that I want them to know me. I'm quite content to-_

The other girls followed the sound of their friend's voice. When they looked up, Zeara tried not to blush, or show that they were unnerving her.

"Are you alright, you look a little tense?"

_Good job, Zeara._

Instead of replying, Zeara did what she always did. She never accommodated kindness. Mainly because she rarely believed in it. Especially when it came from people who were the epitome of fake.

When she narrowed her eyes at them, giving the girls her classic look of 'I'm-alright-and-it's-none-of-your-business', she hoped they would leave it at that. Then one by one, they stood up, and she realised it was either time to go or time to deal with something she hadn't the patience for.

Or the courage. When it boiled down to handling such people, sometimes Zeara didn't care enough to even speak.

The first one moved, her pretty blonde hair curled and wavy down her back, moving with the breeze. She offered Zeara a nasty look, her nose wrinkling, marring her otherwise cheery disposition. At least she'd been right about who they really were.

"You're not being very polite," she said, as Zeara stood up to go. Then her eyes moved for the notebook, and Zeara stepped left just as they cut her off, "What's that?"

The other girls laughed. Zeara's face was so hot she was sure it would melt off and form a puddle on the ground. She bit her lip, readied herself to say something, when all three girls stepped back and turned to walk away.

Zeara looked into her father's eyes as he placed a hand on her shoulder.

_I don't need your help… _"Come on, let's get you home," _Okay… maybe I do…_

They didn't say anything until they made it back up the front steps and into their ruin of a home. Her father was silent as he started to walk away, down the hall and into the kitchen.

Zeara froze at the bottom of the stairs.

"Thank you."

Before he could reply, she was gone.

* * *

**Hale Cheshire, 16 years old;  
District Nine Male.**

* * *

Outside, in the warm enticing air of District Nine, Hale found his escape.

The blue of the sky was so perfect, so utterly beautiful, that he sat with his legs crossed, hypnotized by the fluffy white clouds and singsong bird noises, sent to and fro in the air. Yellow stalks of grain, as bright as the very sun in Hale's eyes, swayed in the most gentle of breezes, left and right, in union with everything and everyone around the field.

It was a perfect day, in Hale's mind, in Hale's distant eyes. A perfect, perfect day.

Until there came a shaking on his shoulder, muted and shoved into the background at first. Then it became more pestering. More and more of a nuisance. He couldn't hear the chirping anymore, the birds had nothing more to sing when he jumped upright, out of his comfortable position, and blinked three then four then five times in the direction of his attacker.

Only, it wasn't his attacker. It was his best friend in the whole wide world. Not to mention his only sibling, the only person who truly seemed to care for Hale.

Willow Cheshire gave her younger brother a hesitant, worried grin. "Are you feeling alright? I told you that sitting in the sun isn't good for you."

Hale laughed; a dreamy, whimsical sound that was almost reminiscent of the songs in the sky. "We have time off," he fell back, his head resting against his arms, "We shouldn't have to worry about anything."

"And yet the world goes on, we're still here, and worry is a necessary part of living."

Hale didn't sigh. He didn't frown. He didn't do anything but keep on smiling, eyes utterly enraptured by the sunshine, glistening in the air. His hands moved through the grass underneath him, where green still lived, and let the thrill and joy fill him from head to toe.

"I worry about you, Hale."

His eyes drifted from the sun to the bright eyes of his sister. "I don't want you to worry about me, Will'. I want you to sit back and enjoy yourself, like I am."

"We can't all be like you," she smiled, "If that were the case, who would work?"

"On a day like today, we don't need to work."

"There's always someone who needs to work. Otherwise when tomorrow comes, there'll be much more to do."

Hale knew that today was the Reaping. He knew that Willow knew that he didn't really care. It was a dreadful, twisted, dark place of unimaginable horror, but it was hard for Hale to think about that bleak, depressive future, lingering on the horizon, when nature was such a warm distraction.

He was well aware what existed in the world. And yet, Hale found it easy to smile through it, to be himself and to live with what that meant, wearing a proud smile, regardless of what people thought.

Willow nudged him again. Anyone else, he might have slipped further and further into his mind, into what was out there, beyond what he could reach. But with his sister, someone he loved more than he could put into words, he recognised what was brewing beyond those forced happy eyes and fearful smiles.

He sat up and poked her in the knee. "I'm sorry, I really don't want you to worry about me."

"That's what big sisters do. We're programmed to worry about our little brothers."

"And little brothers are programmed to bug their big sisters," he smiled, goofily, an infectious laugh rippling in the air towards Willow, "Even if we know we don't want to."

Before she could reply, a set of footsteps drew both of them away from their conversation. Hale looked over his shoulder and blinked, the sheer force of the sunlight blinding him for a few seconds before he shielded his eyes.

Two people, much older than either Cheshire sibling, stood before them. One of them had the complete opposite of a smile on his face. The other looked rather angry. Hale instantly didn't like them. And he didn't like being near them. They made him nervous.

"Can we help you?" Willow was on her feet instantly. Even if Hale wasn't totally focused on the two of them, he couldn't have done anything to stop her.

The shorter one, bald and gruff, his sun-kissed skin tanned and wrinkled, blinked harshly into Willow's eyes. Then he found his voice.

"We don't want no kids around here, not unless you're willing to work."

The other one nodded. Hale's shoulders started to tense. His skin went even paler, if that were possible. He looked up at his sister, who was biting her lip, her fingers nervously tapping against her hip.

"We don't mean no trouble."

"What's that kid gawping at?" He moved for Hale, reaching out an arm to hoist him up. At that exact moment, Willow's anxiety morphed into something angrier. Another part of a big sister's programming. The way they were wired when it came to little brothers.

"Don't you dare touch him," she slapped his hand, angrily with a scowl, "We'll get up and leave. You don't have to be so rude."

Still, Hale sat. Frowning but not quite upset, or angry, or anything really. He knew he didn't like them, and he knew that Willow had stood up for him. But he didn't want to make the situation worse by saying or doing anything. They had a point to make, they'd made it, and now it was time to move on.

If only most people could live by that. Violence for the sake of violence seemed to be far too common for Hale's liking. Peace was easier, but hardly anyone thought about what they could achieve if they actually tried to put their mind to it.

"It's alright," Hale said, smiling at the two men, as he stood up and turned to go, "I'm very sorry for getting in your way. I… I." His nerves got the best of him. All he could do was continue smiling and let Willow escort him away, until the two workers were nothing but dots in the distance, underneath the beautiful sky, stood in the green, green grass in front of the grain they cut.

Sometimes, even the most marvellous of sights housed sad truths. Hale watched as they got back to work, breaking their backs for meagre wages and a shack to call a home.

It made him sad. Hale didn't like it.

_But what can I do?_

The real answer, however hard it was to accept, was nothing.

Hale would never be able to make a difference.

* * *

**Delora Verone, 18 years old;  
District Twelve Female.**

* * *

In District Twelve, friends and family were a person's greatest strength, and their greatest weakness.

Delora Verone, with her two best friends, Alerie and Rickon, and her younger sister Liana, sat somewhere near the Justice Building, where preparations for the Reaping were coming together.

As she watched the lights being hoisted above the grand, central building, the age sections being cordoned off with rope, all Delora could think about were those that were in Twelve. Those people she loved, those she hated, and everyone in-between.

She cherished those that were close to her, those that had squirmed their way into her heart and pitched a tent, forever and always. She not only loved them, she wanted to protect them and stop anyone from ever taking advantage.

As she looked out, not just at the Peacekeepers: Twelve's corrupt authority; Delora let her eyes scan over those that were also watching the Reaping come together, knowing they had nowhere else to turn.

Out there, her connections with those people nearest to her, gave her the biggest disadvantage. Loyalty was a hard thing to come by and for good reason. There were little girls, little boys, teenagers of both genders and some poverty-ridden, emaciated adults. All of them had dark secrets and their own code to run by. Delora's willingness to keep those she loved nearest to her, made it not only impossible for her to see anyone else in the same light, but also made her susceptible to painting a target on her back. No one who wanted to survive could sit down and let people walk all over them.

The problem with Delora, she didn't only keep an eye on herself, she kept an eye on her best friends and sister. It made her weak. But if loving someone made her weak, then so be it. She'd do anything to stop the way of the world; the real truth creeping up on her.

"I don't like watching this," Liana said, frowning, "It's all so sad. Look, they don't even seem to care. What they're doing means that two of our people are going to…"

Delora squeezed Liana's hand, comfortingly, to give her baby sister reassurance. She couldn't keep her safe and watch out for her own well-being at the same time, but she could damn well try her hardest to do whatever it took to survive. No matter the cost.

She offered her friends a smile, the two of them looking to the Verone siblings, silent and solemn.

"We have to bear with it and keep going, otherwise we'll give them exactly what they want."

Liana nodded her head, timidly. "I guess so. It's just hard. My friends could be taken. You… you could be…"

"And then I'll give them a fight. I have things to get back to."

"Like everyone else, all the other tributes have the same thing. Family and friends."

"Which means I'd fight extra hard."

Delora did not let other people do things for her. She didn't wait around, twiddle her thumbs, tap her foot against the ground and wait for life to fall into place. If she was the chosen person today, if she did have to fight and kill, then she'd have to buckle down and get on with it. The repercussions would be astronomical, they'd be the hardest thing Delora would ever have to cope with, but at the same time, as long as she had hope, maybe the consequences could be lived with.

They'd lived in Twelve, they'd lived in Panem. Most people here were practically invincible when it came to hardship.

"At least you guys are safe," Delora tried to change the mood, smiling at her two friends, both nineteen, "Means you'll be here to annoy me forever."

"Count on it," Rickon laughed, winking.

"I'll keep him in line," Alerie put her brother in a headlock, chuckling as he yelped, struggling under her strength, "He's an annoying bitch at the best of times."

"I'm not a bitch."

"That's what a bitch would say."

"Takes one to know one."

As the two of them argued, Liana's head fell into Delora's lap. They laughed as their friends teased one another, shoving and prodding like siblings and the best of pals. It made Delora's heart warm, but also beat harder, sweat building on her forehead and palms as she looked out onto the Square again.

This Reaping could change anything. If they were safe from the Games then something else. There was always horror out there, waiting to jump from the shadows and surprise everyone.

Delora's friends weren't optimistic idiots, but they weren't the kinds of people to doubt everything and bring up their fists at every turn. They believed in something bigger. They believed in something better. Delora sometimes hated herself. Even doubted herself. She could play the smart, strong, but loving girl all she liked, but underneath it all she wasn't sure she really had a place here.

If they realised how she felt, deep down, her insecurities buried within heaps and heaps of confidence, would they leave her? Or would they love her, like she loved them…?

So many questions, and yet Delora would never find an answer.

When Alerie and Rickon stopped fighting, finally, Delora took a step towards the Square and then turned her back on it. Liana went to hold her hand, a precious little thing, and beamed up at her big sister.

"We don't need to be here if it makes anyone uncomfortable," Delora said, gesturing to the side alley, where they could make their way back to the Seam.

"We're here now, might as well wait."

"You only say that because you're too lazy to walk," Alerie poked her tongue out at her brother, laughing as he blushed.

Even with the friendship around her, Liana's worries continued to poke and prod their way into Delora's state of mind. As Rickon conceded to go, their group moving for somewhere away from the impending doom of a Reaping, she kept thinking about what it would be like if she was chosen.

The thought scared her. More than scared her. Delora had encountered many things in her life, like everyone else had. She was no special case and she didn't want any special treatment. All she wanted was a chance to be herself and fight for what she cared about.

If that meant, after being reaped, that she had to go into the Games and be someone that on some level, she'd never be able to be, then so be it.

She didn't believe in the kinds of things her sister did. Or Alerie and Rickon did. She believed in what was right in front of her, the truth of this world and what someone had to do to survive in it. Friends and family came with a cost. Love an even bigger price. That was something Delora would never be able to change and never wanted to.

But for herself, there were lines she'd cross, no matter what.

Whether she was reaped into the Games, or had to spend the rest of her life surviving in Panem, she'd be tested just like everyone else.

Delora was ready. She had to be.

* * *

**Four more of these wonderful tributes!**

**Anyway, up next, the first chapter of the Reapings :)**


	6. Hold My Hand

**Chapter Six.**

* * *

**Reapings, Part One.**

* * *

**Romina Charette, 17 years old;  
District Four Female.**

* * *

District Four was looking forward to yet another Reaping. Another day to showcase its glorious supremacy. Its ability to stand out and be listened to.

Romina, on the other hand, was quite happy to be the complete opposite.

She sat with her best friend Laurel, looking out onto the sea, its waves rolling over seashells and sand, chilling the air with a salty, crisp breeze that ran through Romina's chestnut hair.

She took a deep breath, smiled, and stood up.

"We should go."

Laurel sighed, pushing herself onto her feet. "I don't want to."

"You never do."

"Neither do you, Romina. District Four has its poster boys and girls. Then there's the people the Mayor would rather keep quiet."

Romina sighed, just like Laurel had seconds ago. Sometimes she wondered why the few overruled the many. She didn't judge her fellow people. Those that trained to kill could do as they wanted as long as they didn't make the lives of others miserable in the process.

Most of the time, people stuck to themselves, kept to their cliques, and that was it. Romina was content to get on with her life in peace and privacy, keeping those she cherished close to her, and accepting those that meant little.

But she knew how unfair life would continue to be. Four would be known and hated in the other Districts' eyes for producing future monsters. And Romina and three quarters of the population would go unheard because they couldn't contest with the strongest, more vocal of its members.

Not that Romina cared for speaking up. She didn't like the idea, unlike Laurel, of being the centre of attention in her endeavours. Besides, she didn't really hate the Hunger Games. She did work in an Academy, cleaning weapons, training when she had the spare time, rifling through old books and learning all about nature.

If that could count as training, maybe she was as bad as the rest of them.

_No, _Romina smiled to herself, _they aren't bad people, they have their lives, I have mine. _She took Laurel's hand in her own and the two of them walked towards the Square.

She didn't judge Four and she didn't judge One or Two. For all she knew, they were in the exact same situation. Training was a small part of the populace, but because of the devotion its followers put out there, the normal everyday folk drifted into the shadows and were forgotten by the rest of the District.

Maybe there was no such thing as bad people. Just people who led different lives, learning different ways to survive.

Romina and Laurel walked past plenty of families and groups of friends, collectively smiling and making their way towards the Square. Romina shared the same smile, just not for the same reasons. Laurel had a frown on her face. Expected for today's event.

"They won't like it if they see you that way," Romina said, cautiously shaking Laurel's hand, "Besides, you're safe. Your family is safe."

"Look at them. Look at the way they act."

She pointed towards a group, dressed in the Academy's uniform. The boys showed off to the girls that were bright red, blushing and twirling their hair absent-mindedly round a finger. She didn't really see or experience life in the same way they did. Romina didn't want to talk about guys or makeup or clothes or anything like that.

But if they did, then so be it. Laurel was just a lot harder to please than anyone Romina had ever come across.

What Romina didn't like, however, was when Laurel and her slowly walked through a group of girls that were taunting those smaller than them, up to their waists, timid and shy as they tripped over their own tongues.

Romina went bright red and shook her head, her neat hair whipping the breeze left and right. "Sometimes I see why you act the way you do."

"Maybe I'll draw you from your shell and get you to say more than five words," Laurel giggled, bumping her arm into Romina's side.

"Maybe I can get you to be quiet for once."

The two girls were processed through like everybody else. She imagined what Peacekeepers were like in other Districts, where cruelty wasn't celebrated as sport. The men and women dressed head to toe in white shared smiles with Four's citizens. They cheered those that represented Academies. They were part of a community that looked to the Capitol for guidance.

Romina stood closest to the aisle, Laurel to her right. Other girls were whispering, those that were training for a shot and those that weren't. Four didn't really have a set process each year of selecting the two tributes. If someone showed a lot of promise, it generally became public knowledge that they would volunteer and most people would then step down.

Sometimes it got a little out of hand.

Four's public image meant a lot, especially in relation to the Games. A split lip and twisted arm went a long way to showing how much they knew what they were getting into. Romina couldn't say she'd ever seen the appeal in a broken bone. Even if it did have a deeper meaning.

As the Reaping began, she tried her best to smile through the Treaty, the underlying message, and everything else that today brought. Some kids cheered on. Some kids laughed at jokes that weren't meant to be funny.

All the way through it, Romina made sure she kept a respectful image up. It was polite and courteous to at least let the Mayor get on with what she was meant to do. Four would never get better, Romina didn't let herself believe in foolish hopes and dreams, but sometimes a little optimism didn't do anyone any harm.

Maybe her own home life would turn around one day. Romina hadn't had much growing up, she'd lost things that had turned her entire world upside down, but with hard work came fortune. Romina did all she could to make it day by day, live her life without a label, and let District Four be who it was at its heart.

Most of the time, Romina wasn't effected by the things that weren't a part of her existence.

But today, fate had a new path for her.

"Romina Charette!"

District Four was a loud, rambunctious lot. But they respected tradition. The reaped tribute would start to walk up, the volunteer would then call her name, and they would walk past the child they had just saved.

Romina started that walk. But the next voice to be heard wasn't her saviour, it was her very own lips parting to speak what she had to say.

Maybe it was her being stupid. Maybe she was throwing away everything that she'd literally just been thinking about. But something felt right about it.

Something felt like this was where she had to be.

"I would like to accept my place as tribute. All volunteers are declined."

A ripple of noise went through the crowd. Laurel's jaw dropped. Romina couldn't meet the startled look in her friend's eyes as she took her place on the stage.

She couldn't meet anyone's stare. She could only look out onto the sea and stand, arms by her side, as strong as she could pretend she was.

She'd experienced something to do with training. She knew things that other trainees threw aside for basic brutality. And she had a father and sister that needed help. Her life was on the line and Romina had never been more scared, and maybe there were other options, but this was the one that had presented itself to her and Romina had done what she felt she had to do.

Whether she'd come to regret it later, she'd face the repercussions then, not now.

Because right now she was District Four's female representative.

It was time to do what had to be done.

* * *

**Cade Grayson, 12 years old;  
District Six Male.**

* * *

He could hear them scurrying about, frantic and worried, pacing the house asking _what, why, how, oh where did he go?_

So many questions, so much noise as they looked behind furniture, in closets and inside room after room. Cade had to stop himself from clapping his hands together mischievously. Or pat himself on the back. He liked to tell himself he'd done a good job.

Then it was straight back to business.

He could hear his mother and father, volume rising up and up as the clock continued to tick down. He was in the wooden rafters, hidden in the shadows of the ceiling, the only part of this house that hadn't been refurbished yet. Of course their perfect little boy wouldn't even know how to scale a wall.

No, he'd be stupid enough to hide behind the couch or under his bed.

He bit back a laugh and watched his caretaker, Deborah, walk down the hallway below him. The orange in his hand, ripe and tangy, acted as the perfect distraction as it crashed through a window on the opposite side. He'd pay for that later if they ever found out. Even if they had enough money to buy a solid gold window to replace it.

Still, it was more the fact Cade had been the one to do it, than the fact it had been done. That would be what earned him a scolding.

With Deborah out of the picture, he jumped down, landed silently on his feet, zipped up his jacket, and sped towards the window. He was light on his toes, completely quiet as he traversed the pipe that led up the side of his house and down to the grassy patch beneath, a path winding towards the front gate.

He met Adeline, his best friend, waiting for him beyond the metal bars.

"Took you long enough."

Cade chuckled, "I see the same thing can't be said for you getting ready. Shoulda spent more time."

"Excuse you," Adeline said, bumping into his side, flipping her perfect platinum hair over a shoulder, and then giggling, "I'm dressed to impress."

"Impress who?"

"The country!"

Cade couldn't help but roll his eyes. "The whole country doesn't care about District Six. Besides, they'll focus on whoever's reaped. The most screen-time you'll get is if the camera passes you because someone our age was chosen."

That put a damper on their conversation, even though Cade hadn't meant to. Adeline and Cade were the last two people to care about their state of wellbeing. Mainly because whenever they did get in trouble, they were the best two kids around to get out of a nasty situation unharmed.

Still, that didn't change the fact a reaping was vastly different. And what made it worse was the fact this was their first time, both of them, to be standing between those ropes, not behind them.

"What do you think it would be like?" Adeline whispered, hands tucked into her pockets.

They were nearing the Square. Cade could pick up on the tension in the air, the fear on everyone's faces. He might have been the sort to run away from his parents and explore, but he could pick apart pretty much anyone's emotions.

It was a skill of his he was more than proud of.

"I think no one really knows what it would be like unless it actually happens to them. And the only people from Six that have been through that are all dead."

"Don't say it like that. Besides, we have Victors!"

Cade smiled. "Come on Ad', you're never this down in the dumps."

"Yeah, well, I don't want to die."

"You won't. It's not impossible, but the chances of that happening…"

Adeline's eyes were misting with something that Cade had never seen, or had ever associated with his best friend. He could deal with these kinds of situations. Even though he hated them, Cade wasn't insensitive, it wasn't like he didn't care.

He wrapped an arm round her shoulder and pulled her in close, shaking her with a sad grin on his face.

"I can't kill them all. I'm only twelve," she said, voice breaking.

"I'm only twelve too. Don't you have any faith in me if I was chosen?"

Adeline's laugh was the best thing about her. When she started, Cade couldn't stop. They drew attention to themselves, but they'd always enjoyed that anyway. Freedom away from what their part of society expected. Their parents didn't matter outside of the suffocating bubble they'd had them trapped in since birth.

"Let's just get through this, together."

"I'm not a girl," Cade said, joining the queue, "Past that table, you're on your own kid."

"Way to make me feel better."

"I've got my limitations."

They didn't quite hold hands towards the Peacekeeper, but each other's presence was enough to inspire confidence. Cade winked at the lady in front when she called his name. Her nose wrinkled in a way that told him she thought he was beneath her shoe.

Cade knew what types of people to say things around, and what types of people it would be best to shut his mouth when in their company. Peacekeepers were the latter sort of person. He bit his lip, politely said thank you, even though his finger hurt like a bitch after being pricked, and waited for Adeline.

"I'll see you after."

She nodded. "I've got a plan for later. It'll be fun."

"A plan I'll pick apart, point out the flaws in, and then make into something better?"

Adeline grumbled, turning to go. "Yeah. That sort of plan."

"Bye," Cade laughed and put his hands in his pockets, moving for his section.

It was a scary thing, standing there with the kids his age around him, kids that like Cade had never stood here before. The Mayor looked so much taller on stage than he remembered. She was an imposing figure that only became more intimidating the more she spoke of rebellion, hatred and blood payment.

Children's blood. _What a wonderful world we live in. Everyone wants something from someone. I'm sure the Capitol would love to see my head on a spike._

He hadn't even been alive when the Districts had fought against the Capitol.

The empty words continued to spin round and round his head when the Escort replaced the Mayor. She was a lot easier to watch, even though she had the job that made everyone's heart beat faster. Cade was included in that. His palms started to sweat when she reaped the female tribute.

Amaya Devlin was a complete mess on stage. She cried, tears slipping through her fingers and to the stage floor. Cade watched, remembering Adeline a moment ago, when she'd been upset, and then tried to hold back his smile when he realised she was safe.

Then he saw how torn apart Amaya was and frowned. _I hate this._

"Cade Grayson!"

_I really hate this._

At first, he wasn't really sure how to react. Shock was an understatement.

Then reality caught up with him, overwhelming powerful, punching him in the face, and Cade realised he himself was crying.

He heard his name called out again. When he walked, he blinked up at the stage, staring at the Escort to see if she had said his name. As tears continued to leak out from his eyes and trickle down his cheeks, he realised it was his mother's voice, powerful yet broken, cracking through her sorrow as her baby boy was being taken away from her.

Cade had to listen to his name, over and over again, torturing him as he stood on stage. He was a twelve year old kid. That was it. All he'd ever wanted to be was someone bigger, someone like the person he really thought he was.

But now he just wanted to be his mother's baby son. Her little boy.

_I can't do this. _His entire body started to shake.

Showing the world he could grow up had been his main goal in life. Now the Capitol would force him to mature in ways that were beyond his capability.

He wasn't that sort of person.

He was this person. Cade Grayson. A child.

* * *

**Clytie Torrence, 16 years old;  
District Nine Female.**

* * *

When it came to Reaping Day, District Nine became a real community.

Strangers would get together and aid those who needed help; families would unite with other families, knowing how hard it would be, the unknown and what would happen if the unthinkable became their children's future.

Friends, enemies, teachers, students, rich and poor, District Nine never left a person behind.

Clytie felt the exact same way when it came to leaving her house. It was a terribly loud family she had. Two parents who worked day and night to support their six daughters. Having five sisters made Clytie's life rather hectic, chaos running rampant through their dim little house, everything they had to their name crammed within the four walls.

She didn't mind, though. As her elder sister Calliope helped tie her hair up, she smiled and placed a hand over hers, the two of them looking in the mirror.

"This might be the last time you do my hair," Clytie remarked, the sadness in her eyes betraying how she really felt. "You won't be here when you get married."

Calliope shook her head, "I'll always have time for you. For all of you. Who else will tell you about the monsters under your bed?"

"I stopped believing in monsters when I was six."

"Doesn't mean they aren't there."

Clytie laughed. "Different kind of monsters, maybe. Tall men in white and strange people from an awful city that take our friends and family. Those are our monsters."

The two sisters carried on laughing and talking, the clock ticking down their last few minutes before it was time to leave. Clytie enjoyed these moments a lot. With her family, she almost felt invincible. They all had their quirks and shortcomings, but when it came to looking out for one another, there wasn't a family in Nine more loyal than hers.

Clytie stood up, patted down her gingham dress, and poked Calliope in the arm, giggling when she went to wrap an arm round her neck.

"You'll have to be faster than that!" Clytie called over her shoulder, bounding down the hall with energy, running down the stairs and landing on her feet with a satisfied nod of her head.

Two of her younger sisters, Thalia and Ter', sprinted out the door with her parents chasing after them. Clytie smiled at Clio when she left, Calliope just behind her. The house slowly fell to an air of peace which Clytie welcomed easily, despite the chill that crept through the air.

Mel' was the last one to reach Clytie. The two knew their routine. She ran her fingers through her younger sister's hand, holding it tight to her side as the two walked out the front door. Clytie locked it behind her and that was it.

"Time to go," Clytie remarked, whether to Mel' or to herself, she didn't know.

Her sister was quiet. She usually was when it came to the Reaping. Clytie knew she hated being helped, she understood why Mel' would feel that way, having nothing but her other senses to help make up for her lack of sight. Clytie just wanted to help her. She wanted to give her younger sister the love and support family gave one another.

If that annoyed her, then so be it. _She can't make it on her own. _

They walked through the District as quickly as they could. Up front, Clytie could just make out her four other sisters and her parents, trying to keep the chaos to a minimum. Other people Clytie knew and those she didn't laughed and smiled sadly at the sight of their large family. The unity Nine had for its people struck a chord with Clytie's heart, each and every time she saw it come to life in front of her.

She wanted to be just like everyone else. But family always came first.

"We're walking past the flower shop," Clytie said, smiling at Mel', "You know, the one I work at."

Mel' mumbled something. Clytie tried not to frown at her lack of enthusiasm. Instead, she carried on, chatting about who she worked with, trying not to blush at the mention of _his _name, doing everything to keep her mind preoccupied and away from what today really meant for two people, completely in the dark about their futures.

She tried to think about the flowers. They gave her peace in an otherwise loud world, filled to the brim with its own type of chaos. She had as much energy as any Torrence did, but after all was said and done, the quiet was a welcomed comfort for Clytie.

Maybe after the Reaping she'd go back to work, even if the shop didn't have to open up today.

"We're here."

It wasn't Clytie that said that. Mel's entire body froze when they came to a stop. Clytie tried to soothe her nerves but nothing seemed to work, even when they were ushered through and the entire Torrence family said their goodbyes.

Clytie watched a group of girls laugh at Mel', holding onto the rope to make her way to her section. Her fingers clenched into fists. She almost took a step in their direction to say something, when the Mayor cleared his throat and took centre stage.

_For the best, _Clytie watched, patiently, subduing her anger. _I'm not that kind of girl._

The Reaping was a dull affair. Words and more words drivelled out of his mouth, words she'd heard a thousand times before and would hear for many years to come. Only when the Escort came on stage did Clytie tense up, her throat tighten, and her brow dampen with sweat.

She could hear girls either side of her whispering that it would be okay. To themselves or to their friends, she didn't know. Maybe both.

_Not Mel'. Not Clio. Not anyone I know. Please._

It wasn't her sisters.

Any other year, Clytie would have smiled through the guilt, knowing someone she didn't know was going to die in place of someone she loved.

But she did know the girl that had been called.

Clytie Torrence was her.

"Oh," Clytie breathed out, "Oh…"

When she swayed and staggered down the central aisle, all she could see was the stage where the Escort was reaching a hand out to grab onto Clytie. She wanted to take her away from the place she loved. Her sisters and parents. Her friends. Her flowers and work and everything else that had become Clytie's entire world.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

She nearly burst into tears there and then. Something stopped her. A hand, moving over the rope, clutching onto her shoulder.

Clytie met the teary, blind eyes of Mel', staring deep into her own, even though she couldn't see.

"I'm scared," Clytie's lip trembled.

"Show them what a Torrence is made of," Mel' sobbed, quietly, shaking like a leaf, "Show them our strength."

When she made it to the stage, Clytie's cheeks were wet and tear-stained, red and flushed. But the resolve in her eyes was true, as true as she could make it. She looked up, met the eyes of a camera trained on her, and let her fingers curl into two fists, either side of her.

She wasn't a killer. She wasn't a monster.

But she was a girl who loved her family, loved her District, and would do anything to get back to where she belonged.

From her heart, she'd draw the strength needed to win.

* * *

**Emigdio Santiago, 18 years old;  
District Eleven Male.**

* * *

His entire family, one by one, were getting ready for the Reaping.

The Santiagos were a mismatch of individuals. Loud and quiet. Troublesome and relaxed. The one thing they all shared, however, was the love and fear that such a day supplied.

Emigdio stared, with his arm rested against the doorway, at his parents stood side by side in their cave of a living room.

He'd learnt long ago that the sight of where he lived, inside and what was on the outside, couldn't be changed. Emigdio watched with a blank expression, nothing to tell of what he was thinking, as his mother finished tying up her hair, and his father finally stopped struggling with the tie that rested against his worn, stained white shirt.

The only formal garment he had to his name.

He caught his mother's eye. She offered him a smile; he offered her a small, curt one in response.

"I'm sorry they woke you."

"It's your father's snoring that does that, not them," she laughed, patting her husband on the shoulder, "Besides, they're family. They're Santiagos."

For a while now, their house had become encased in a bubble of volume. On Reaping day, it became even louder. Their home was a small one, all of them like so many others, struggling through poverty. The staircase sounded like it would collapse whenever someone used it.

When it started to creak, one of the walls even shaking at the loud thundering footsteps, Emigdio was half certain that today would be the day. When it didn't and his little bundle of joy, blonde haired and bright faced, jumped into his arms, he smiled and let all the worry fall apart.

"What's that you've got round your neck?" Emigdio smiled, touching the necklace his daughter Sophia had on.

She giggled. Any father, old or young, knew the beauty of such a sound. A child's laugh made even the darkest day brighter.

"Gran's. It's pretty, don't you think?"

"Very pretty," Emigdio smiled, putting her down onto the floor, "You should ask before you take things though."

There was a lot of noise going on, upstairs with his son, wife and younger sister, and outside where people were finally moving for the Square. At the thought of the Reaping, what it really meant, Emigdio's stomach tightened and the breath was almost pulled from his chest.

Inside this house, Emigdio was a father, a son, a brother and a husband. Outside, he was all those things, but the pressures of life sometimes became so much harder to contain. He had so much weight on his shoulders. Everyone did.

The way they walked sounded like a funeral march. Solemnly united towards the death of two of Eleven's children.

_And one day it'll be Sophia and Romero's turn._

He saw the way his daughter was looking at him and sighed, smiling and pulling her in for a hug. He tried not to worry when Jenni, his sister, and Macy and his son Romero finally made their way down the stairs. Together, as a family, they left the house and joined the procession.

_Better get this over and done with. _

"You'll be free today, Emigdio," Macy said, running her hand through his hair. "Then we won't have to worry."

"Not for me. But for…"

Macy followed his eyes. Romero was behind them, held by Emigdio's mother. Jenni and Sophia were holding hands and skipping, side by side with his father watching over them.

"When their time comes, we'll deal with it. Until then, we don't even think about that."

He nodded. There was no use for words. They weren't his forte. Emotion wasn't, not really. But family was family. He'd rip apart the whole of Panem if he had to. That was what families did for each other.

When they finally reached the Square, Emigdio saw a group of teenagers, his age, gathered together and throwing fruit at a pair of girls somewhere at the front of the line. His jaw clenched. Macy saw the irritable spark in his eye, the way his muscles tensed, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't, not today."

He kept his eyes on them as the girls ran away. "They're being idiots."

"They might be idiots but you're not. You don't want Soph' and Romero seeing you do something like that."

"Jenni would. She's always liked the idea of her big brother kicking ass."

It wasn't meant to be a joke, but when Macy laughed, a sweet chiming sound, his heart leapt into his throat and he smiled through his pent-up anger.

She made everything seem alright with this world. He was the luckiest man alive.

They were processed into the Square, as a family, and Emigdio said his goodbyes one by one. It was Jenni's first reaping and Emigdio's last. The whole family were nervous for the pair of them. He held her hand until she pulled away, stuck her tongue out, and ran to meet her friends.

Emigdio didn't really have any. When he wasn't working to support his family, Emigdio was inside the house, doing something productive. He hated idleness. He hated feeling like he had no control over his life, however hard it might be.

Even if things couldn't be made better, at least he could try. If he didn't try, what was he?

_I've coped with a hard life. Grown up to be who I am today. I'll make a better future for my children._

He didn't hear the first name called. He didn't recognise who she was or had any inkling into what her story could be. His heart went out for her, but he didn't know her, it wasn't Jenni, and as guilty as he probably should have felt, that was all that mattered.

Until the next name.

And then Emigdio, the teenager, the eighteen year old kid who had fallen in love, had an unplanned child, had another, and lost his childhood before he'd ever had one, realised what had become of his future.

The string of curses that left his lips received a mixed response.

He didn't trust any of them, Emigdio never had. He'd do anything for himself and his family, meaning they would as well. Each and every person looking at him would step over anyone for a better chance. So when he saw their sad eyes, or even their smiles at the thought of them being safe, he felt nothing but more anger flood through his veins like ice, as he marched up the stairs and took his place on stage.

"My, my-"

He didn't hear what the Escort had left to say. At the back, he saw Macy, holding Sophia and Romero to her legs. He saw his parents, hand in hand, crying. And then Jenni, screaming for her big brother.

He'd lived his life, gone through hell, and never complained. He'd accepted the card that fate had dealt him.

But this… this would tear apart everything that mattered the most.

When Macy met his eyes, he could see how strong she was trying to be for the two of them. He nodded. He put all he could into that one last look.

_I'll be back. _Emigdio clenched his fists, settling his rage. _And when I do, we can start our new life._

He intended to keep his promise.

* * *

**Twelve tributes down, twelve to go!**

**A big thank you for everyone who helped this story achieve over 100 reviews with the last chapter. Only five chapters and to have that amount, yeah it means the world. Thank you :)**

**Next up, another reaping chapter!**

**(A little note before everyone now mentions this. It's my fault I should have wrote about it properly in his POV, but Emigdio's wife is twenty, their youngest is two, meaning she was around eighteen when she gave birth. Plausible. Sorry submitter, thought I'd bring it up because I'm sure you don't want everyone writing about it in their comments on him!)**


	7. Blinding

**Chapter Seven.**

* * *

**Reapings, Part Two.**

* * *

**Uriah Valore, 18 years old;  
District Two Male.**

* * *

Uriah grinned in the mirror.

_Well, today's the big day. _His reflection, beaming back at him, grew happier and happier as the thought planted itself in his mind, its roots wrapping their way throughout his whole body.

_Oh boy, I can't wait!_

He practically jumped in the air, kicked his feet together jubilantly, and ran down the stairs. A frame protecting a rather dull, monochrome flower shuddered and nearly fell. Uriah paid it no attention, not even noticing the way it shifted slightly askew, and landed on the welcome mat with ease and a spring in his step.

Even as his Mother rounded the corner, all wrinkles and frowns, the angry little prune she'd grown to become, Uriah couldn't quite dispel the future from his every waking thought. After all, he'd trained for this practically all his life.

There was… one particular problem, of course._ Problems shmoblems_, he waved the thought away in his mind, flippant as ever, and stepped towards his stern looking Mother. _Even today, she can't be happy for me. _

It didn't really bother him. He could be excited for her. And if she still couldn't smile then, well damn her. Uriah didn't have the time nor patience to focus on people that weren't seeing things the way he saw them. The way they were meant to be seen.

"Marlene left without you."

_Typical little sis'. _"She's got friends too. Friends, you know… people that aren't family. People outside this rather wonderful wooden door." He gave the doorframe a pat, chuckling to himself. "You should get out more, Mother."

"And you should calm down and focus, Uriah. They said no."

For the first time today, since his wonderful dreams, floating on a cloud, limitless and free, to the moment he'd opened his eyes, the smile slipped from Uriah's face and his fingers clenched instinctively. A vein throbbed in his neck.

He forced sweetness into his tone and titled his head, shrugging his shoulders. "No, yes, pfffft. Where are the maybes?"

"Don't be a smartass. They said no. The people in charge of choosing the volunteer. If they don't think you're good enough, you sure as hell are not."

Uriah started to laugh, a sound that gave away the emotions swelling inside his chest, pushing against his ribs until his entire body started to hurt. Pain, anger, confusion, disbelief. And of course, the spark of joy that he would still be going into the Games.

Because underneath everything, Uriah was still that six year old kid, hopes and dreams in his head, where the world seemed a wonderful place, and the Games the icing on the cake.

"Look, Mother. They don't know what they're talking about. I'm the best of the best."

"Clearly you aren't-"

"I'm the best," Uriah gritted his teeth, opening the front door, "of the best." He took a step back, waved with a cheerful smile, and turned to go. "See you later, Mother. You'll be proud of me one day."

He knew she had something to say to that. He didn't stay long enough to hear it.

Uriah had two ways to deal with other people's negativity towards him. Ignore it or punch them. Since there were quite a few people in this District, family and girls mostly, that he wouldn't punch, ignoring did the trick most of the time.

He met his gang nearer to the Square. At the sight of their faces, happy to see him, everything back at home was left right there, tucked under the doormat, to be ignored and forgotten. He was the kid from the Academy. The kid with the friends. The kid with the laugh, the smile and the charm.

He was Uriah, and in his mind, there was nothing better.

He had the most perfect life, there was just something else, the reason he was here, to make it all the more better.

"Your sis' is looking mighty fine, I must say."

Uriah punched Jax in the shoulder, a big, brute of a fella'. He barely even felt it, yet laughed all the same, clutching his shoulder with pretend hurt etched into his face.

"I'd rather you didn't say that," Uriah laughed, putting an arm round Samaria's shoulder, and ruffling little Gerry's hair with his other.

They signed into the Square and stayed near the back. They still had some time. Besides, until he got back, this would be the last time for a week or so where he'd get to soak in District Two's sun with his best friends, breathe the warm air, and let the pleasure sink beneath his skin.

Sometimes, he wondered how the other people in Panem did it. Two was the place to be, all day, all night.

"Shit," Samaria swore, under her breath.

It drew Uriah from his thoughts the moment he saw her fingers tap nervously against her hip, her beautiful brown eyes flicker anxiously to the side.

"Ah," Uriah crossed his arms round his chest, meeting the eyes of her wonderfully insane boyfriend. "It's the meathead!"

"Watch it, Valore."

When he went to pull Samaria in for a kiss, Uriah stepped between them and pushed him away. "She doesn't feel like getting her face sucked off today."

"Excuse me?"

"It's okay Uriah," Samaria said, touching his shoulder. "You might not like him, but I love him."

"Then kiss him when I'm not looking."

"Let me knock your pretty little head to the ground then you won't have to."

"Pretty little head?" Uriah clapped Jax on the shoulder, the two boys sharing the joke between them. "You coming onto me now, meathead?"

"I swear if you don't-"

Uriah heard the crack of his knuckles and that was it, his boring, stupid voice was drowned out in a sea of static, arising from the microphone centred on the stage.

He immediately forgot about what was going on until they had all moved about. Samaria for her section. Meathead for his. And then Jax, Gerry and Uriah for theirs, right at the back.

Suddenly, he was the most nervous he'd ever been in his life. Not because he was technically breaking the rules, but because it was finally happening, the peak of his existence had arrived and Uriah felt like throwing up wouldn't be enough of a reaction to the way his stomach tossed and turned.

"You got this," Gerry smiled shyly, nodding at him. "Show them they made a big mistake."

Uriah tried to compose himself as the Mayor finished up and the Escort moved for the female bowl. He barely saw what was going on up on the stage. The reaped girl was replaced with a beautiful blonde, head to toe the picture perfect representation of District Two's finest femme fatales.

He wanted to take her all in, but he didn't have time. His moment was arriving. _Three seconds… two… one… _

"Jasper Holloway!"

All eyes moved for the boy that the Academy had chosen. No one even saw Uriah, blood in his ears, his vision tinged red, adrenaline driving him forwards, until it was too late.

His fist brought the boy down; one small kick to the head kept him there until Uriah took his place and it was too late.

For that one moment, District Two fell still. No one knew if they should applaud or boo. Dead silence greeted Uriah as he took a deep breath, steadied his breathing, and stepped up to the microphone.

_You got this. _And then he smiled. A classic, brilliant Uriah Valore grin, which stirred everyone from their shock and disbelief and got them on his side the moment his lips parted, his teeth shone, and everyone forgot about the boy in the dust.

Two respected strength.

He'd always known he was strong. From day one to today. They had been wrong, and now he'd settled the score. Now he was here, on the stage, ready to go to the Games.

_Best moment of my life, hands down._

* * *

**Andryn Vitalli, 16 years old;  
District Three Female.**

* * *

When it came to living day to day in the same old house, cluttered from floor to ceiling with every possession the Vitalli family had to their name, Andryn adored the way her life had come to pass.

There were plenty of people who occupied District Three, those with brains swelling against their skulls, tapping away at keys and writing down numbers, and then those that like Andryn were a little less focused on academia for a more exuberant, explorative life.

A mixture of these individuals; more than two-thirds of the population, liked to complain, drivelling on about _this _and _that _and _oh, what more can be done?_

Andryn lived her life without any of that. But the one thing that made her stop to question everything she knew about her life was this particular painting. One work of art against the hundreds of others her mother had done, sitting on her little stool, smiling out of the window with a brush in hand and an imagination on overdrive.

The achromatic dreariness of the black sky and white spots made Andryn's heart flutter. The kind of flutter she didn't like. When the woman that had raised her came into the room, tying up her hair, Andryn's lips quirked down into a confused frown.

Her mother caught sight of what she was staring at and laughed, pulling Andryn into a hug. "You have a question." She wasn't asking Andryn if she did. She seemed to always know everything her daughter was thinking without Andryn having to say a word.

Andryn loved that about her mother. _But this…?_ "It's so… lifeless. We aren't like that. Mother, you aren't. We're a bunch of chipper chipmunks. We're colourful."

There was the sound of footsteps marching down the staircase, her brother and father ready to leave for the Reaping. But the feeling this painting gave Andryn was too much of a distraction for her to simply move on and forget.

Andryn didn't really focus on one thing for very long, it wasn't her style. This was an exception. She was one of the more vocal members of District Three, one of the girls who pointed at the smog and thought of the sunshine held behind it, caged from expressing its light.

This was the complete opposite of anything she'd ever seen her mother paint.

"Sometimes the beauty of what we're thinking can be interpreted in numerous ways. This is one of my happier paintings."

Andryn looked puzzled. Usually words went in one ear and out the other. Explanations were another thing far down on what Andryn was capable of staying attentive for.

"Where's the pink?"

Her mother laughed, her finger moving a string of Andryn's hair over her ear, patting her cheek with a sweet smile. "One day, maybe you'll understand."

"You're so wacko mom, seriously."

"Where do you think you get it from?"

Both Vitalli women left the house, arm in arm, behind lonely little Amil and the man of the house, Andryn's father who beamed at everyone who walked past them. Andryn loved that about her father. They cracked jokes together as they moved for the Square. She didn't need to see his eyes or hear his laughter to tell how happy he was.

Or how happy he was pretending to be.

Andryn admired him for being everything she wanted to be. Her mother, her father, and her little brother, only one year younger than her. And then there was District Three – not perfect, but as good a home as any other place.

Why should she feel upset? She had everything she could ever want, right here at her fingertips. Life was truly good.

Once they reached the Square, Andryn started to grow impatient, the queue in front of them winding its way down the street, much farther from the table at the front where they would all be processed.

Her mother placed a hand on her shoulder, looking amused when she met Andryn's irritated stare. "We'll get there eventually."

"I want to see Elasa," Andryn said, thinking about her best friend. "She promised she'd finally ask him out."

"Ask who out?"

Andryn giggled. "That's a secret."

"You girls," her mother shook her head, before her eyes once again drifted away from the scene around her and focused in on the sky, foggy and sullen, where the beautiful blue and fluffy white clouds were tucked away.

Andryn understood her need for freedom. Sometimes the shackle District Three tried to slap round her wrists felt like a burden she wasn't ready to bear. Or ever would be. She wanted to live her life Andryn-style. She didn't want to be told how to do this and how to do that.

"Well, goddam finally."

Andryn didn't even flinch when they stabbed her finger. She said a hurried goodbye to her parents and brother, hugging them each in turn, before moving for Elasa who was waiting for her in the sixteen year old section.

Andryn pounced, like a predator, lunging for its prey. There was a wild, energetic glint to her eye when she practically sent her best friend toppling into the girl next to them.

She didn't even notice or hear the stranger's grumbling.

"Oh my god, did you? Please tell me you did. Please, please, pleaseee!"

Elasa winked, smirking. "That's a secret."

"Ugh!" Andryn groaned. "My mother said the exact same thing! Come on Elasa, if it wasn't for me doing your hair and clipping your nails, you wouldn't even have had the confidence to ask him out."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm just saying, you need me."

"I do not."

Andryn snorted. "Yeah, sure."

Before she could throttle her best friend for an answer, they realised that the Escort had already replaced the Mayor on stage. Andryn got distracted far too easily. Elasa blushed when several pairs of eyes glared at the two girls. Andryn, on the other hand, stuck her tongue out and giggled when they themselves went bright red instead.

The Queen of I-Don't-Give-A-Damn; Andryn had earned that title a decade ago.

"Andryn Vitalli!"

Maybe she'd lose her crown today.

All of a sudden, she very much did give a damn.

"Fuck."

Andryn looked at Elasa, who had cursed out loud, completely uncaring to the nervous laughs and saddened eyes that turned to look at the two girls.

"Fuck…" Elasa stared, completely transfixed on her reaped best friend. "I mean… triple fuck. Fuck."

"Yeah."

"Shit."

Andryn felt her breakfast coming up. Her lips went from an uncomfortable smile, to the saddest expression she'd ever worn, to something stuck in-between.

Finally, with her heart beating harshly against her ribcage, she squeezed Elasa's hand for the final time, took in the encouraging smile that caged the fucks she wanted to scream out loud, and moved for the stage.

Once up there, Andryn's entire perspective shifted.

Their eyes were on her. Their entire focus, one-hundred percent, was fixed on her up on this stage. They could see her. Everyone. District Three and those watching in the Capitol.

Sure, she was scared shitless, but she was… important.

Andryn soaked in every look sent her way and hugged her Escort. With her back to the cameras, she quickly risked a second to wipe away a tear threatening to fall from her eyelash, and beamed out at the rest of her District.

If they wanted to take her away from her life, then she was prepared to fight to show them otherwise.

It all started with how she came across, here, as their new tribute. A future fighter. Maybe a future killer. Perhaps a future Victor.

_Not a future corpse. _Andryn bit her lip, shaking hands with the reaped boy that soon stood on stage. _One thing's for sure: the afterlife won't be getting a new angel this year._

Andryn was here to stay.

* * *

**Arick Greige, 18 years old;  
District Eight Male.**

* * *

The day had finally arrived.

Arick looked into the mirror, a glass panel bolted into his wall, glancing at his otherwise messy hair combed back and tucked behind his ears. Any spot on his otherwise neat and tidy face had been dealt with; any speck of dirt or dust or unsightly feature gotten rid of.

Arick was supposed to be everything his parents, and the movement, needed for today's Reaping.

The pressure was overwhelming.

His eyebrows knitted together as he glanced over his entire body, like they always did, partially with confusion, partially because he had no idea how to feel anything other than devotion to what his parents wanted from him.

He tucked in his shirt, patted down a crease, worry etched into his features if he let anyone down, and moved for his bedroom door. The moment he stood at the top of the staircase, heart thumping against his chest, hands respectfully by his side, he met the anxious gaze of his younger brother.

The Greige brothers stared, one at the top of the stairs, one at the bottom, in total and utter silence. A knife could cut through the atmosphere, thick and strenuous, choking out the words Arick wanted to say.

It was only when his brother took the first step, did Arick show any sign of movement, mirroring him completely. Weft was the younger of the two of them, Arick had all the responsibility, and yet sometimes he couldn't even do a simple thing such as movement unless there was someone there to draw him from his mind.

Perfection, he wasn't. _A let down… maybe…_

But he kept up with his training. His calm, dutiful face broke out with a small, polite smile when he placed a hand on Weft's shoulder. His younger brother tensed at his touch, before relaxing into it, a shiver running down his spine which Arick easily picked up on.

"You can still say no."

Arick had listened to him relentlessly over the years, spouting his typical rebellious views on their situation. Arick had been taught by his parents how to drown him out. A mother and father to not just Arick, but Weft too, who only had eyes for one of their children.

Sometimes Arick's heart went out to his younger brother. Sometimes Weft's whys felt all too real. They had more of a grasp on Arick's reality than he cared to admit to himself.

"I don't want to say no," Arick said, moving for the front door. Outside in the cool, chilly air of District Eight, both brothers moved side by side. "This is what I'm meant to do."

"If the rebels want to send a kid to die for their stupid poster boy, they can send someone who isn't my brother."

"You'd condemn another kid to the Hunger Games?"

Weft faltered, before raising an eyebrow. "Condemn? I thought you know what you're doing. In that Arena, Arick Greige is supposed to win and give the rebellion what it needs."

It was now Arick's turn to fumble over his words, something that had become all too common in recent years. Weft frowned, sadly, and gestured to the path in front of them. It led towards the Square. No one knew what was going to happen, no one but the Greige family and those inspired by the rebel's underground movement.

Kindra, one of the leaders, had only been informed of Arick's purpose days ago. Pieces were finally coming together. Again, the pressure was astounding.

_I'm eighteen. And yet I feel so much older. _He thought back on what he'd said, seconds ago. _You'd condemn another kid to the Hunger Games? _He had sounded so uncertain. A conflicted mind was a weak mind. That wasn't something Arick could let corrupt him.

And yet, how many years had it been since his brother had planted that seed of doubt, where everything was slowly being put into perspective?

Maybe he just couldn't think for himself any longer.

"If my words won't convince you, maybe I can show you something that will change your mind."

"Weft please-"

Before he could stop his brother, they reached the queue, consisting of only a few early-comers, and were quickly processed through to the Square. Weft raced ahead, stopped in front of a small group of people, and greeted them all in turn.

Eight or so pairs of eyes moved for Arick. His entire face felt hot. He tried to stop himself from awkwardly standing out or appearing out of his depth. Another lesson from his parents. Not only was he a dutiful member of the rebellion, he was a kid who could rouse a group of people, spur them on with his words, and motivate them towards a certain cause.

Like his parents. Like Kindra. Like every rebel but Arick.

"These are my friends. The short one at the end ate the rest."

A small, stumpy little boy frowned, then burst into laughter, shaking his head. "Way to make me feel special, Weft."

Arick looked at them all and tried to smile courteously, to show everything from respect to warmth in his eyes.

One of them, a small, petite girl, who looked no older than thirteen, smiled at Arick and opened her mouth to speak. "You look so calm, Arick. Weft tells me you've never been scared for any of the Reapings. How do you do it?"

_Because I was taught how not to be scared. And because when I fail that, feel my palms sweating, I pretend otherwise. _

He wanted to make them all feel good. He wanted to inspire confidence in his brother's friends. He wanted to be the Arick Greige that would soon volunteer.

Instead, his cheek went a flaming shade of red, his tongue felt like a lead weight, and the only noise that left lips was something strangely akin to: "Mrmhmagh."

_Good job._

Soon enough, the rest of Eight finally reached the Square. Arick tried to settle the nerves in his stomach. Weft gave him the biggest hug they'd ever shared before they parted from one another. Arick knew why. He tried to force himself to think anything else except what had been going on inside his brother's head for years.

The Escort didn't waste any time. After the Treaty, she reaped the first girl with surprising speed. Zeara Kadnell looked shocked on stage. Occasionally she'd lose her balance and sway to the left, before collecting herself and gazing out defiantly over the sea of children before her.

Arick didn't know her. But he respected her.

_And now it's my turn._

The name that was called up belonged to a boy he'd never heard of. A boy that everyone but a select few thought would be the chosen tribute.

When Arick's hand shot up, the practiced words filling the air with a sense of strength he'd perfected for far too long, everyone looked at him with utter confusion.

He strode onto the stage with purpose. He shook hands with his Escort and did the same with Zeara. He showed everyone in Eight exactly what his parents and the rebel movement had wanted from him.

Their figurehead. A Victor to lead the rebellion.

That had been the goal.

_It's a good job I didn't eat breakfast this morning, _Arick thought, his internal ramblings contradicting his external appearance, _I'd be sick everywhere._

Luckily for him, the Reaping ended before he had the chance.

* * *

**Audria Kivare, 16 years old;  
District Ten Female.**

* * *

On days like Reaping Day, even the sun couldn't bring a smile to Audria's face.

She sat with her chin in her hands, gazing out of her bedroom window at the fields below. In the tall grass, small kids from the neighbouring farm laughed together, girls a few years below her age and girls she knew from school.

Audria observed them as they played, with their heads in the clouds, negativity scattered to the wind.

Their farm was in a state of disrepair, beyond any kind of help. Audria's family happened to own one of the more prospering businesses, and even with whatever aid they could spare, barns in a state of ruin, piles of rundown wood and ramshackled cottages, dotted the horizon in numbers that shot past the amount of animals the Kivares had to their name.

And yet, these children clung to their happiness because it was all they had, because they needed something.

Audria's cheeks went warm. Her eyes started to water. She envied them of their innocence. She envied them of their joy. She envied them because they were living and she was not.

Audria had spent too long in her bedroom. The past week she had lingered, fretting over the Reaping, fretting over her past, present and future.

She heard footsteps coming up the stairs, moving for her bedroom door. When her mother gazed in, her head craning round the handle, Audria tried to let her lips twitch up into some semblance of a grin.

It seemed to work. Her mother beamed back at her, even as her eyes started to water. "It's time, Audria. We should go."

Her stomach immediately started to feel queasy. Nerves swam behind her eyes, taking the shape of colours that hammered against her skull. She had a headache the second they left the inside and ventured into the outdoors. A relentless migraine that made everything ten times harder to deal with.

Audria held her head high, however. Even with the fear of the Reaping, jealousy of everyone around her, and constant turmoil that ravaged her every waking thought, she refused to let them see her weak and broken. Audria had friends. Or acquaintances. She had people who knew her name and acted as if they were close.

But just like everyone else, Audria expanded on their strengths by exaggerating her own weaknesses. Maybe that was why she hadn't left the house in days. Sometimes it was too hard to face what was beyond her little farm, beyond the fields, where the only animals were the humans that walked District Ten.

"We'll be right at the back, come find us afterwards, okay?" They were nearing the Square. Audria nodded at her mother, who was still holding back her tears. She had always been a fearful woman, scared of her own shadow.

"I'll be okay. How many girls are there in District Ten?"

"Thousands."

"Exactly," Audria's fingers started to tap nervously against her hip. "Thousands. Thousands that aren't me." If only she could have felt as convinced as her words made her out to be.

Up ahead, she heard someone chant her name, before the sound of running footsteps brought a frown to her face. Before they could see the way her lips twitched downwards, she brought the grin straight back and wrapped her arms round Mabel's shoulders.

"We'll leave you girls to it."

Audria watched her father guide her mother away. She sent one last panicked look in her daughter's direction before they were processed through and vanished amongst the throngs of District Ten's citizens. She suddenly felt extremely alone.

Audria had other things to focus on right now, however. Her parents slipped to the back of her mind when Mabel dragged her along, nails digging into her skin, moving towards the back of a queue. Three other girls were there, Audria's age, in her class. They were girls Audria called a friend to their faces and they said they loved her to hers.

Sometimes it was hard to believe. They were so perfect.

Audria was just Audria. Her parents were really the only ones who ever seemed to truly care.

"Oh, Audria! Great timing. We were just talking about what we were going to do after the reaping-"

"I was just going to-" Audria tried to speak, but like always, she was quickly cut off.

"He's got like a party or something. Loads of people. All eighteen, obviously. After this Reaping they'll all be free from the Games. Exclusive, of course," she offered them all a playful, mischievous grin. "But I managed to get us an invite."

The girls giggled and clapped their hands. Audria did the same because it was expected of her. Real emotion had been left tucked away in her closet, where she kept everything else that didn't seem to matter. It would be the same story, anyway. Her friends would shine at the party, Audria would be brushed to the side, and she'd leave without anyone knowing or caring.

And so the cycle continued.

Besides, she didn't like doing things on the spur of the moment. She didn't like not knowing exactly who, or what, or why, or anything that had to do with everything. But she nodded with her friends, looked the part, and stood in the Square laughing and chatting like the teenage girls they all were.

_I wish I could be them, _Audria thought to herself, heart thumping against her ribs. _Life would be so much easier._

She watched the Escort grace the stage with her flamboyant yet radiant presence. Although complete fear threatened to bring up her breakfast, Audria would not show anyone the side of herself she kept tucked away. She kept her chin up, a small, anxious smile on her face, and let her hands fall against her hips.

_They will not break me._

She was the only person who could push Audria around. Her own mind was her only enemy. Everyone else could throw what they wanted and she'd deflect it back. This Reaping was just another enemy she would face and face again and again. Each time she'd come out the winner and stand proud.

Because Audria could play any part, as long as there were people she needed to impress, she would never stop fighting.

Her heart went out to the girl on the piece of paper, folded in the Escort's hands. She wished her well. But then the Escort called, out loud, two words that shattered Audria's entire world.

Her whole life she'd thought she'd reached rock bottom. Being who she was had always been enough.

Now, though, there couldn't be anything worse. She was the reaped tribute.

Audria's tears started to well almost immediately. There was a difference between holding back before a death sentence, and staring imminent death in the face. Audria started to walk, shakily at first, knees knocking together, before she realised how many people were looking at her.

It was just her. _Everyone sees me. Everyone._

She tried to fight through her fear. She made sure she walked with as much composure as she could fake. Once on the stage, the spotlight shifted to the Escort, and Audria choked on a sob, balling her hands into fists and staring out at her friends and family in the Square.

If this was the end, she couldn't let them down. Audria had caused too much already in her life just by being her.

Now, who she was happened to be the only thing that could maybe save her life.

If it would be enough, Audria already knew the answer.

She'd known the answer since the very beginning.

* * *

**Aaand that's it for the reapings. Up next, the goodbyes. Then the Capitol!**

**I hope you've all been enjoying this story so far. I know I have! I finally came up with an idea for what I'm going to do after this canon series is over and as much as I'm dying to start it, it'd be stupid of me to get something else up and running when this story hasn't even really hit the main part yet. Still, I'm excited :D**

**On my profile there's a link to my new tumblr page, I decided to finally give in and see what it was all about. Most of it's just random stuff to do with things I enjoy and find entertaining, but it can also be a place linked to my fanfiction where you can ask me stuff related to this story, or other stories, or whatever. I've seen other users on FF do the same thing, so I thought I could maybe start that up as well! Check it out if you want to :)**

**Thanks for reading!**


	8. Fighter

**Chapter Eight.**

* * *

**Goodbyes, Part One.**

* * *

**Theon Devalera, 17 years old;  
District Four Male.**

* * *

Theon did not like being manhandled. Not one bit.

Peacekeepers in Four were much more lax when it came to guarding and escorting those associated with the Games, but even so, his hand lightly pressed on Theon's shoulder made him uncomfortable. Uncomfortable enough to shrug him off, turn around just before entering the goodbye room allocated to him, and step closer to the Peacekeeper who stood a few inches above him.

"It's a little thing called boundaries," Theon sneered, wrinkling his nose. "Find someone else to touch."

He wasn't angry. Quite the opposite actually. He just felt like he had to say it. Any consequences that came to mind as a result of practically shoving away a member of authority didn't even come close to Theon's present worries. Sometimes it was harder to think before acting. The spur of the moment was his favourite place to be.

Plus, he didn't like being treated like he was below someone. Equal or a step above, that was how he liked existing.

Once in the room, alone and left to his thoughts, Theon started to hum anxiously, tapping his foot on the ground. This was the part he'd been most nervous about. Not the whole being the focus of every camera in the Square. Being shown to everyone in the country on a television screen. Not even the fact he was volunteering to basically murder people.

He was anxious and worried about saying goodbye to his… parents. Because he wasn't so sure how he felt about actually, potentially, not seeing them again. _Not that I'm going to die, of course. I trained, I volunteered, and I'm fighting because I believe in myself._

_Even so…_

He'd never really had a place in his family, or even in the community. People got close, take the Peacekeeper for example, and Theon had a nasty habit of pushing them right to the edge and kicking them off just to double check.

Then he'd feel extra guilty, smother that down under a grin, maybe train some more or kick something, and let the cycle repeat. And now he had to say farewell to the two people that had shown him the most love he'd ever received, a love he'd rarely mutually reflected back, and Theon was… scared.

_I'm actually fucking terrified. _He wanted to laugh. _What a joke… who's scared of their own parents? _It wasn't them he was afraid of. It was himself. He'd never really known his place in anything. He'd never really known how to be anything but how he wanted other people to see him.

And whenever he tried to show them what they wanted to see, it usually ended up being the complete opposite. _What a life I live!_

When his parents finally entered the room, the atmosphere was more depressing than Theon had planned. He tried to crack a joke, laughing to himself, and when the chuckle only faded and vanished from the air, a frown replaced his grin and Theon slumped forwards, glaring at his parents.

"Soooo…"

"Oh Theon!"

His mother swept forwards, grabbing onto his hands and trying to pry him from the chair. Theon stubbornly refused to stand, which resulted in some kind of awkward in-between, his Mother hunched down, whilst he was struggling to get away from her grip. It would have been amusing if Theon wasn't feeling embarrassed.

Embarrassed to who, he had no idea.

"It's alright, you don't have to touch me."

"I only want to say a proper goodbye. I didn't know you were considering doing this."

"Yeah you did, Mother." Theon laughed, shrugging his shoulders. "Okay, even if you didn't. Why worry? Yeah, alright, so there are other kids going in. Other kids who might know what they're doing. But don't you have faith in me?"

"There's a difference between faith in a son living at home, and faith in a son who wants to kill-"

"I don't want to kill," Theon said, before shrugging again. "Well, no, I don't want to. Need to, yes. Need is important. I'm not exactly going to curl up and cry and let them push me down."

Theon was trying as best he could to keep his voice level. He knew his parents didn't like it when he shouted, and as much as the emotions raging through him gave him some kind of weird high, the after effects were awful. Guilt, regret, self-hatred. Another vicious cycle he was practically permanently stuck in.

Appeasing others by being what they wanted, when he didn't know what he really wanted for himself. He didn't really care about anyone. But he'd never really taken the time to care for his own wellbeing either.

"We just want what's best for you." It was his Father's turn to speak, the man of the house stepping forwards to comfort his wife with a hand on her dainty shoulder. "We didn't really expect you to do this."

"Yeah you did," Theon replied, coldly.

"What?"

"Oh come on. I never really ever fitted in back home. I never really seemed to fit in anywhere. Maybe I trained because it was some kind of outlet."

"What do you mean you don't fit in? What about that lovely girl you brought back home last week? We had dinner and everything."

Theon laughed, his cheeks going a little bit red, before he reached to scratch an itch on his neck that wasn't quite there. "Oh… well, yeah. Yeah… her. Um."

"Ros?"

"Oh," Theon chuckled. "Yeah, Ros."

"See, you have people you care about."

"I wouldn't necessarily say it was the person I cared about. More what's between her-"

"Theon." His Father cut him off before he could continue.

He wanted to feel bad. And Theon did. His heart always fell during these kinds of conversations. He'd see his parents, try to feel the love they had always given him, be the son they wanted, and fail embarrassingly and continue being simply the boy that had no idea what he really was.

All he knew, right now, was the simple fact that he had volunteered for the Games. He had volunteered because he knew he was good enough, he knew he was the best of the goddamn best, and whether or not people liked those who thought they were everything, Theon didn't care.

He didn't want to feel ashamed that he believed in himself. Self-belief was important. Underneath all of his pent-up insecurities, his confidence came from something that was buried deep within. If everyone in Four had a label to stick onto him, then maybe that was their problem and not his.

Maybe he needed to stop overthinking everything and focus on simply living how he felt best.

_If only I actually knew what the best for me was..._

The final goodbye his parents said to him was strained and forced. Caked in love from his Mother and Father, smothered in something pretend from Theon. He didn't do these types of situations. He didn't know how to show back something he wasn't sure he really felt.

When he stripped back everything, as the door closed, Theon simply realised the honest truth that he found it hard to trust anyone. He found it hard to let them in because he was afraid… he'd always been afraid.

Of himself? If that was the question, he'd never have an answer.

Maybe he had volunteered to find who he was. Maybe in the Games, in some sick twisted way, Theon would get to realise who the real Theon had always been.

Because there was no way being stuck in this shitty loop that Theon would ever amount to anything.

The Games were his only way out.

* * *

**Nevaeh Blume, 15 years old;  
District Five Female.**

* * *

Fear.

A terrible, clotting sense of terror strangled the sobs from Neveah's throat, leaving the room with a deathly, distraught atmosphere. Nevaeh couldn't keep her eyes clear of the tears. She wanted to. She wanted to pretend because pretending might make things easier.

No matter how hard she blinked though, or played with the frayed ends of her sleeves, twirling the thread, trying to distract herself, Nevaeh's thoughts kept falling back on the end. The idea that this… this was it.

_I… I don't want to die…_

Nevaeh only had two people in her life. Two people that made everything worthwhile. Even if she longed for more and could never seem to find it, never seem to fit in, Nevaeh had the sun and the moon in her life. She had people that she loved. People that she cared about.

And she was being taken from them. Into a world of unknown possibilities and only one inevitability. Death.

_I really… really don't want to die… p-please…_

The door opened. Nevaeh's tears were halted by the sound of wood creaking on the floorboards, a rusted metal hinge drawing out the sound. The long ribbon of subtle yellow stretched out in front of her eyes, twisted in the centre, clouding the image of whoever was walking through.

When the door closed, it vanished entirely. Nevaeh usually found peace and distraction in her… gift. _Gift, that's what Father wants me to label it as. _Sometimes she did, sometimes she didn't.

Nevaeh's eyes misted once more with tears that continued to travel down her cheeks, move down her chin, and land on the carpet. Her Father, the one man that had treated her more than just a daughter, but a friend, something she'd never really had, cradled her in her arms.

She knew he wanted to say something. Nevaeh knew that in his head, so many words of love and hope and disbelief and everything else that needed to be spoken, were being drowned out through the utter sorrow that fell from his eyes, alongside her own tears.

His broken sobbing left a dark blue colour in the space around her, the ribbons turning to splotches of colour, drumming in front of her eyes as he shook in her embrace. The Reaping had been silent, the Reaping had offered her no comfort from the world. No colours to see and get lost in.

Sometimes, Nevaeh thought of things being different. Like she always seemed to want more, there was something about this world that didn't seem… complete. And now, without her Father and only herself to rely on, she realised that maybe she'd never really make something of the short life she'd been given.

The dreadful thought made the sadness intensify, wrapping its arms round her heart. The world was truly dark.

She felt a hand cup her cheek, wet with tears. "Nevaeh… I…. I…." Her father's face was red and blotchy, tearstains in the flush of his cheeks.

Nevaeh squeezed his hand and shook her head. "I can't do this… I can't. I'm not- I'm never going to be-"

"No." His voice grew sterner, a contrast to the anguish that had a second ago been straining his voice. "I will not- I will not lose you. You will not lose yourself. Nevaeh, I've always believed in you. You were… you were our miracle. You will always be our miracle. I don't care what this world thinks it can throw at you, I'm not about to see my daughter succumb- to give up. You can-"

His voice cracked; another sob rattled from his throat.

Nevaeh didn't know what to say. With her Father, a small part of any normal girl came to life within her, a spark in her heart that warmed her life for the briefest of moments before her mind darkened. Outside these four walls, the world was a terrifying place and Nevaeh had never fit in.

She was now expected to become everything that was required of a tribute in hopes of returning to a place that would rather label her an outcast and force her to the side, than welcome her with open arms.

_Not that I ever really tried… I just… I can't. _Nevaeh tasted the tears on her tongue, her Father's arms wrapping round her shoulders, and the quickening of both their hearts in unison, one beat thumping against both their chests.

"I want you to remember how special you are. Not just to me, but to yourself. I know it won't help you in there, but when you… when your _gift _becomes a part of your time in the Capitol and Games, I don't want you to let yourself sink deeper into-"

"I know."

"Please, Nevaeh. I need you to fight through everything. You'll always be my precious daughter and I'll always be your Father and friend, but you can't allow yourself to-"

"I know."

He wasn't just talking about Nevaeh's ability – if that was the right word – to see noise in the form of colours, shifting and transforming and wrapping in front of her eyes, but also who she was in her heart. A lonely girl who would stay inside, listening to the sounds of life outside their building, knowing she had no place amongst them.

She'd never fit in and she'd never really tried to pretend to be someone she wasn't. Her Father told her, all her life, that it was better to be yourself and never look back. Nevaeh wanted to believe that. Maybe today she could. But tomorrow. The next day. When she was surrounded by strangers…

The future was bleak. The future was a terrible, terrible place. Worse than the past, worse than the present.

"Look after the piano," Nevaeh whispered, the corners of her lips twitching upwards into the faintest of smiles, thinking of the music floating through the air, colours blooming before her. _My special place. _"Don't let it get… don't let it break…"

"It was your Mother's before you, and it'll be yours when you get back, sit down, and play me a song. And then it'll be your daughter's, and then your granddaughter's, and on and on."

"Father-"

He shook his head, standing, helping her up with her hand in his. "We only need that one person in our life to make it whole. Your Mother and you were what gave my life meaning. I know that she would be… be proud of you."

_Even after the Games? Whether I live or die, knowing what a tribute has to do?_

Nevaeh didn't say that. She smiled, nodding her head meekly, pulling her Father into one last embrace. "Thank you. I love you. I love you more than… than anything…"

She felt his hand on her back, relishing this one last moment. If he truly believed in her, or if his love for family was clouding reality, Nevaeh couldn't and didn't want to know. She had to not only use her Father as motivation, but her own survival.

She didn't pretend to have the greatest of lives in Five. Maybe one of the worst. Maybe somewhere in the middle. Nevaeh lived with what she had and tried to fight through it.

This was the worst of all fights, but a fight nonetheless.

When she saw her Father leave, the last goodbye that left his lips before the door closed, wrapped itself through the air in a faint red that touched her chest and faded away.

Her whole life, she'd wanted to fit in. Maybe the fact she hadn't was a blessing in disguise.

It would only be her in that Arena – her and her alone. And then when she came back, her piano, her friend, and her Father.

Her Mother's memory.

They were all worth fighting for.

* * *

**Phris Cantle, 18 years old;  
District Ten Male.**

* * *

He thought he'd been through it all.

Phris sat in a chair, hands slumped by his legs, eyes glancing around the luxurious room. It was better than anything he'd ever seen before. Fit for a king, or some royal nonce who looked down on people like Phris.

Someone else might have found peace and comfort in such beauty. All Phris could do was wrinkle his nose, curl his lip, and let his stare fall on the door in front of him.

The state of such a room, with death and impending doom stapled to its meaning, made Phris feel emptier than he'd ever felt before. This room disgusted him. The chandelier. The paintings. Even the mirror, his height or maybe even taller, hung up from carpet to ceiling. As if anyone needed a pane of glass that goddam huge. Vanity at its finest. The pinnacle of arrogance.

This was all to rub it in. Phris had seen enough outside this building to realise that inside here, the pain and hurt was a thousand times worse. Because in the real world, day to day, it was easier to cope with suffering in its natural environment.

In here, it was wrapped up in a silk bow, a present that so many let themselves unwrap and believe in.

Phris had lost his ability to hope and believe a long, long time ago.

As he contemplated his feelings on the matter of his situation, a sharp rapping on the door roused him from his thoughts. He'd never actually been in this room, dealt eye to eye with the proceedings, but he was pretty sure people usually just walked on in.

Phris made a random noise, something between a grunt and a yes. The door creaked open and the Peacekeeper on guard duty, lean and helmetless, button-nosed and furrow-browed, stared at Phris with as much contempt as he'd ever seen on a man of authority.

They really saw people like him as underlings, squashed beneath their boots. Too bad for him. Phris honestly didn't care. Life worked that way. Life was shitty and these people only made it shittier. If he cared about his fellow mankind, maybe he'd worry more for their wellbeing once he was gone from this world.

He didn't.

"This isn't exactly procedure, but your Father would like to know if you'd be open to the idea of seeing him?"

Phris, for a moment, didn't know what to say. Of course his loving Father would do that. He couldn't even gather the courage to walk on in, have Phris roll his eyes and tell him to fuck off, and then flee with his tail between his legs.

No, he needed Phris' permission.

On any other bad day, he would have said no. Phris had cut ties with his family for a reason. The Cantles meant nothing to him. But today, on the worst of the worse kind of days, Phris was feeling far too preoccupied to harbour hatred or anger for his neglectful upbringing.

He nodded without speaking. The Peacekeeper grumbled something, moving aside for the man that had been tasked with the simple challenge of raising his son and failing, who couldn't even meet his eye as he stood before him.

Before Phris could speak or say anything, he saw who was behind him. At the sight of her, for the first time since being escorted in this room, Phris' fingers clenched into fists, a vein started to throb in his forehead, and he could feel himself losing his cool.

He'd told himself to not care. He'd told himself that if he was going to live, he would. And if he was going to die, then he would. There wasn't much he could do about anything. Fight, of course. Kill, it was needed. But whatever fate had in store for him, he'd welcome it with open arms.

He'd tried, since the Square, to focus on that and keep his emotions bottled up, like he had done for so long.

This woman though – his mother – left a bitter taste in his mouth. A taste he had to spit out, on the carpet, in front of his father's feet for the two of them to see.

"I thought, given the circumstances-"

"That I'd… what?" Phris nearly laughed, _nearly. _Instead his eyebrow simply twitched, his lip curled up again, giving the only emotion that could be seen on his otherwise composed face. "Be oh so happy to see you again?"

"On a day like today, yes."

"Empathy was never really your thing, was it Mother? Maybe if it was, you might understand why I left that day, promising to stay away. And why right now, today of all days, your face would be the last fucking thing I'd want to see."

"Language."

Phris did laugh that time. His mouth opened incredulously, seeking some sort of phrase or insult to pour forth from his lips to convey how he really felt. When that failed him, his eyes shifted to his Father, who tried as subtly as he could – and obviously failing – to sink into the shadows of the wallpaper.

Phris wouldn't let him get away so easily.

"You wanted to see me? You had to ask for permission, of course. Although, it'd have surprised me if you would have just walked on in anyway." Phris shrugged his shoulders. "Your wife has more balls than you, Father."

He blushed, stuttering over his words.

Truth be told, Phris had had it with everyone. His parents. The Peacekeepers. His fellow peers, no one coming close to a friend, but those he could put a name to a face and recognise from a distance.

It had been far too long now where Phris had worked through a shitty life, handled the dirt and challenges thrown his way, and let his heart blacken more and more by the second.

Phris did not care. Instead of letting the anger at his Mother, the cheating whore, fill him up any longer. Or his coward of a Father. Or any other emotion other than what he'd always felt. Instead of that, Phris let his back sink into the chair, his eyes fall on the carpet, before closing and letting everything flow from his fingers, drain out, and be absorbed into the air around him.

He was done.

He'd be done a long time now. Call him cynical, call him negative, Phris was who Phris had always been. Humanity had become a stain on this world for far too long now for him to be able to even conjure up a happy thought any longer.

They could do as they pleased. A principle Phris had followed too – illegal or not, he'd made it by, he'd survived, and now he had a bigger game to focus on. A game that he might win, or lose, and no matter what, he would move on with no regrets.

His Father and Mother were gone by the time he opened his eyes again.

_Good. _Phris didn't need anyone. _Me, myself and I._

He'd lost faith in society a long time ago. Like always, it was time to do what he did best and use what he knew to fight for his life.

Because he wouldn't give up, no matter his views.

He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

* * *

**Fira Trevalle, 18 years old;  
District Eleven Female.**

* * *

So far, she hadn't cried.

Fira considered that a plus. It could be a whole lot worse. As she waited for the goodbyes to begin and the end of everything that had been her world, she tried to keep herself as calm as possible. Fretting and sobbing and worrying and everything in-between wouldn't help the situation.

As terrified as she was, her heart rate a sign of how much this was eating her up inside, she was keeping herself cool and composed. Otherwise, she'd start thinking in terms of inevitably dying, rather than possibly surviving.

If she reached that point, there'd be no going back.

The door opened a fraction of an inch, slowly and hesitantly, like whoever was on the other side wasn't entirely sure if this was the right room or they wanted to come in. Fira bit her lip. Whoever it was, this was it. The moment she'd dreaded since she'd sat down.

Fira was trying to take this one step at a time. The Games were there of course, and as her mind raced frantically between how to say farewell to those she loved and how to beat twenty-three others kids in a fight to the death, she tried her absolute hardest to at least look like she actually had a shot.

Self-belief was the first step needed, and she had that. Not every Victor happened to be some bloodthirsty psychopath from the get-go. Sometimes, and quite often, it was the person you'd least expect. Fira was nothing special. She'd kept her head down all her life, worked hard, made something of herself, and reaped the rewards of a harsh, but steady existence.

It was a start on this hellish road ahead.

The moment the door finally opened properly and Fira met the sorrowful eyes of her Father, the first word she wanted to say was strangled out from her. Her mind cursed itself, the sob choking the noise from her throat. She swallowed it down and smiled, timidly and sadly, reaching out a hand which her Father quickly swept forwards to take.

"Fira… this isn't-"

"It's alright Pa'. It had to happen to someone."

His face creased with more pain when his wife and his other daughter stepped through. Fira wasn't going to pretend to sugar-coat the situation for them. Or tell them she had this in the bag indefinitely. Or that they were looking at a girl that would sweep through the tides of kids and smite them from this world so she could be victorious.

Fira didn't do that. She didn't construct false belief to make her or anyone else feel better. But she also didn't want them to feel sad. Hopelessness was just as debilitating as delusion.

"I can't believe it was you. This was your year. You were getting out."

"You make it sound like prison," Fira smiled, chuckling. The false laughter made everything even more depressing. She dropped the grin and clutched onto Mellis' hand.

"I could have-"

"No. I'm glad you're too old for this."

Fira shook her head. Her elder sister had always been too soft for her own good. If it were the other way round, it shamed Fira to realise that she probably wouldn't have stepped forwards to volunteer. Or even if she had, it wouldn't have been instantaneous. She'd have waited to think it through.

_Not Mellis, she'd have been up there in a heartbeat if she was young enough. _

"I just wish I could protect you," Mellis whispered.

"Protect me by making sure they don't get into any trouble," Fira said, squeezing her sister's hand, her eyes moving over her parents. Her Mother was silent. She'd never been able to handle words that well.

Maybe that was where Fira got it from. Her strict, stern independence. Although unlike her Mother, she actually valued outside company. She didn't always want to keep to herself. It wasn't healthy.

"I know you know what you have to do in there," she said, speaking for the first time. "I didn't raise a daughter who would just give up."

"No one's talking about giving up. I know what has to be done. I know I have to do it. And I'm… ready."

"You're never ready, Fira," Mellis wiped a tear from her eye. "No kid is ever ready for… killing."

"No kid should ever be ready to live in Panem. But they do. We survive. And a good enough majority get to grow up and die at a decent age. It's called making the most of a terrible situation. Fira can do this," their Mother said, proudly.

Fira tried to smile. She'd always felt confident in herself. She'd always felt like she could do things better than some people at times, or at least she had the focus needed when others preferred to skip hard work for distraction.

And this was the Games, this was something on a whole other scale, but if she at least thought about it in the same way, adapted to fit what was coming for her… then maybe…

"Just don't get cocky. You got to keep your head clear and ready for what they'll throw at you."

"I know, Ma'," Fira nodded, standing up. "I bet everyone around the country is saying it right now, but I'll do my absolute best. That's all I can do."

"Do your absolute best," her mother spoke as she moved, alongside her husband and Mellis, wrapping her arms round Fira's shoulders for a family embrace, "and then do even better."

Silence enveloped the room. Fira could feel their heartbeats thumping away against her own. She could sense their fear and anxiousness, the way their breathing was heavy and Mellis squirmed in their hug, trying to bury her head in Fira's neck and then thinking twice about it.

Fira wanted this moment to last for an eternity. But the clock told her otherwise, and reality, as harsh as it was, told her the same thing. She had to keep herself grounded, think on her family, think back on everything she'd grown up trying to fight for, and then think on herself.

Because in the Arena, her family wouldn't be with her. Her friends would be nowhere in sight.

It would Fira and Fira alone, fighting off the other tributes, fighting off the Arena, and fighting off the Capitol. A tall order for a simple girl from District Eleven, but in this life, nothing was ever easy. She wasn't about to kid herself that this would be a walk in a park.

She very well could end up dead. She might never see her parents or Mellis ever again. But she could try. Trying was all she had. Fighting and surviving.

Fira wasn't the type to sit back and let life choose its own path. If she wasn't going to survive, she would at least do everything she could to make it as far as possible. On her own terms.

Giving up had never been option - not whilst she'd grown up in Eleven, and definitely not where she was headed.

The Games needed a fighter.

And a fighter they would get.

* * *

**Yeah so I caved and… published something. Don't judge me ;/**

**One more of these pre-Capitol chapters, then onwards with the more interesting stuff! **

**I won't complain about review count with the last two or so chapters because honestly I'm really thankful to those that are reviewing, but it'd be great to hear from the rest of you who submitted and haven't commented on anything yet. Gives me more opinions to go on! :)**

**Thanks for reading!**


	9. Talking to Ghosts

**Chapter Nine.**

* * *

**Goodbyes, Part Two.**

* * *

**Diantha Cravelle, 18 years old;  
District Two Female.**

* * *

Diantha watched her parents leave the room, hand in hand, moving away from their daughter.

Her Mother failed to hide her tears as she looked over her shoulder, smiling her last goodbye. Diantha continued to wave them out with a grin and cheer in her voice, even with the tears weighing heavy on her heart. _It just means she cares. It doesn't mean she doubts my chances at… surviving._

"Bye, Diantha," her younger sister hugged her one last time before leaving, a heavy frown on her face. "Please… please come back."

Diantha waved goodbye, still fighting, still trying to smile and fit the part. Because this was who she was. This had always been who she was. A goodbye and some tears, a farewell hug and some sobs, none of that would change why she had to do this and what she'd do to get back here.

_I am doing this for them, after all._

"See you later twerp," Diantha laughed, clapping her younger brother on the shoulder, ruffling his hair and pushing him towards the door.

"Yeah," he shrugged, walking away. "Farewell fuckface."

Diantha giggled. "Hey, language dipshit."

"Great role model you are."

"I try," Diantha watched the last member of the Cravelle family leave, smile intact, a laugh fading in the air, before the door closed and she returned to the centre of the room, sitting back down for whoever else would pay her a visit.

She wasn't nervous about leaving. She wasn't necessarily nervous about what she was headed into. As long as she kept her cool and did her best – a best she really thought was good enough to win – then she'd be back in no time.

The goodbyes didn't need to feel so final. Because they couldn't be. They wouldn't be. _Not on my watch._

She waited another five or so minutes before her next guest opened the door. Diantha stopped the drumming of her fingers against the chair side when her eyes met those of her boyfriend's. Immediately, she rose and raced towards him, swinging her arms round his shoulders and burying her face in his neck.

Outside when the doors weren't closed, Diantha would never let herself look so soppy. So meek. So… small. But in here, when the cameras couldn't see her, where impressions didn't matter, Diantha could let her life be what she wanted it to be.

She could show her affection for those she truly loved.

"You went through with it then," Damian said, sadly, his voice weak as he pulled away from their embrace. "I… I won't lie and say I didn't hope you would change your-"

"Come on Damian. I had to."

"No one has to do anything. That's why we're given free will."

"From some divine power," Diantha laughed, twirling a piece of hair round her finger. "Don't give me that BS. We make our own lives. I made this decision for mine and my family's."

Damian looked at the carpet and sighed, his shoulders rising and falling heavily. It hurt her to see him like this. Almost as much as the tears in her Mother's eyes. Diantha would rather avoid the harsh truths than face them head on.

The fact they seemed so distraught made the prospect of dying seem even more… real. She wasn't deluded. Of course she _could _die. She just preferred to focus on what she was able to control in the present. Rather than the future.

Worrying wasn't part of who Diantha was. That's what made it so hard to see everyone look so doubtful.

"I've been helping you," Damian said, meeting Diantha's gaze, a new fire burning hot in the blue of his eyes. _He's so loving. All he wants is the best for me. And I hurt him… like I hurt everyone eventually… _"I could have lent you more money."

"And you know I wouldn't have been able to pay you back."

"I don't care!-"

"I do," Diantha said, frowning. "I'm not a charity case. I know you love me, and obviously I'm grateful, but they aren't your family, they aren't your responsibility, they aren't-"

"You're an eighteen year old girl. They shouldn't be your responsibility."

Diantha could tell how heated things were becoming. But she didn't- she couldn't- let anyone, even Damian, act like she was some girl who didn't know what she was doing. That she couldn't help her family or those she loved, even if it meant having to hurt others to ensure she achieved something.

"This is what I need to do. If you don't understand, I think you should-"

"I'm not going anywhere," Damian said, stubbornly shaking his head. The fire in his eyes started to flicker away, before they began to well up with tears, tears that he tried to hold back to no avail. "I just don't… I don't want to lose you…"

_Again. Again and again and again. _If everyone else acted like she wasn't coming back, was it really time she started to consider that maybe, just maybe, she really wasn't…?

_No. Never._

Diantha fell back into her chair, crossing one leg over the other and staring at Damian. If they couldn't be confident for her, like always, she'd have to be confident for herself. As long as she believed, that was enough.

And then she would prove them all wrong. Maybe that was the most powerful of motivations. Beating their expectations.

"You're looking at the next Victor. You know what I can do. Seen what I can do. I wasn't chosen for no reason, Damian."

He looked so broken, so young, so frail in front of her. But she held up the barrier, held up the pretence, and powered through it. No more frowning, or crying, or doubting, or anything. Even with the people she loved looking at her in ways that meant to break her heart, persevering was key.

"Don't you understand what you'll have to do… in there. The things you'll have to do."

Diantha nodded. "I know the cost. I know the price I have to pay. And I know how willing I am to do it. If I have to kill innocent kids to help my family, I will."

"Think about what you're saying."

"I am," Diantha said, composed, cool, and confident in her chair. _This is the Diantha they will all see. The Diantha they will fear. Because I need them to. _"I doubt it'll be easy, I doubt there won't be a challenge, but I didn't really volunteer hoping for some cake and tea in the park. I volunteered to fight and killing comes under that." She shrugged. "So what?"

_Please go, Damian. Please go before I…_

She was shocked into silence when she saw the smile on his face, his lips curling into his cheeks, some of that boyish charm coming back to Diantha for a single, special moment, hiding away the tears, sadness and anger.

"I believe in you. Just do your best… that'll be enough…"

Diantha nodded, smiling back at him. "It will."

_It has to be._

* * *

**Barnaby Miller, 13 years old;  
District Five Male.**

* * *

_Noise._

From day one to today, Barnaby had never known a moment of quiet.

They'd all come to see him – his family and the Weavers, meaning nothing, not even his final farewell, would be any different to the life he'd had.

Barnaby was alright with that. He was happy with that. The baby noises made by Calico as he giggled and then started to wail in his Mother's arms, reminded him of what he had, what he loved, and everything that had been his life for thirteen years.

His own Mother was trying not to cry. Barnaby didn't like to see her upset. He didn't like to see any of them holding back tears or looking away when he met their eye, so as not to break down even further. His Father seemed to trade his tears for a gruff frown, eyeing how tightly packed the room was, everyone pushed up close to Barnaby, sat in the chair, so small with his loved ones towering around him.

He was used to that. Their voices carried louder than his. Their thoughts and feelings always expressed above his because Barnaby kept quiet and let the world roll on by. It was how he liked it. He liked being able to buckle down, keep his head focused, and get on with his life without complaint.

Only now, everything had been turned upside down. He wasn't even sure how to feel. Upset? Scared? Everything was so… numb. So absurd. Whether it had even started to sink in or not, Barnaby had too much going on around him to focus on how he was responding to his death sentence.

If it even was a death sentence.

The Games… the Games had been unimportant. People went, people didn't return, and life moved on. He'd never directly been effected. He'd never even really watched them, his parents choosing to shield him from what was happening. And now he was in the centre of this new life, he wasn't sure if that had been a good idea or not to keep him tucked away.

_Am I really going to die? _

Thirteen year olds weren't meant to think about going forever. Thirteen years old weren't mean to be killed…

"It's not right," his Father shook his head, hands jammed into his pockets. "A kid. A little kid. Look at him. He looks like a damn eight year old. They expect him to be able to-"

Barnaby chuckled. "Thanks Dad."

His Father went bright red in the face, stuttering over his next words. "I-I… I didn't mean- Barnaby…"

"None of this is right," Mrs Weaver started to say. Because of overpopulation, he had to share his home with another family. The Weavers were kind and gentle. Barnaby didn't mind. He liked people that were decent and tried for the sake of others. "But Barnaby is here and he has to make the most of the situation."

"A situation where he has to kill?" His Father's voice was growing louder and louder. Calico, in Mrs Weaver's arms, was practically bawling now. _Is that how I should react? Should I be crying? _"Not to be rude but it's not _your _son going into that Arena. It's mine. When he dies, it won't be you-"

"When I die?"

The room went quiet. His Father had said the one thing no one, not in this position, as true as it might be, should ever say.

Barnaby knew that. The moment the words were spoken out loud and had settled in the air to be absorbed, his Father's eyes started to water and lowered to the ground.

Barnaby hadn't grown up to be anyone special. A fighter. The guy in the centre where everyone praised and loved them. He'd been raised to be a simple worker, do as he was told, and he'd always been content with that. He'd done whatever was required and lived his life with an obedient smile.

But now… _now my Father thinks I'm going to die. _Had he wasted thirteen years of his life being what they wanted, when he'd never really asked himself what he wanted? Or was this really all he'd ever needed?

It wasn't right for him to be here. It wasn't right for a kid to be asking himself these questions. He had a life. And they were taking it from him.

His family left a few minutes later. The Peacekeeper held the door for them, one by one kissing Barnaby a sad farewell, his Mother refusing to leave until pried away by her husband. He couldn't meet his son's eyes. One last goodbye and out he went.

Barnaby was alone for a few more minutes when his sister finally barged in. Caroline, eighteen years old, with her own life now, ran straight into Barnaby's open arms and started to cry into his shoulder.

"It'll be okay, Caroline," Barnaby whispered, shrinking into her embrace. "It'll all be okay."

"I need you to do something."

"Oh?" Barnaby looked up at his sister's face, wide-eyed and curious. "What?"

This was the part where someone told him to do something and he did it. Because that was how it worked. It was easier that way. A whole life of being shielded from all this horror gave Barnaby a dangerously skewed perspective.

Maybe that was why he hadn't cried yet.

He didn't really believe he was going to die.

"There's a kid. One of us, an outer-District kid. He's going to volunteer." Caroline's eyes were red, but she spoke with strength, the same kind of power he'd always respected in those older than him. "Don't ask me how I know, but he's from District Eight and you… you need to ally with him."

"Why?"

"He's…" Caroline's voice started to quieten, until she moved for Barnaby's ear, straining to whisper where no one else could hear. "He's part of the rebellion. The fight against the Capitol. They need someone like him in the Games… you need to ally with him."

"Why…?"

_I don't get it._

"Because the Capitol won't suspect he volunteered for reasons they don't support if he chooses to team up with a thirteen year old. A weedy thirteen year old at that," she tried to laugh, but the sound didn't really work given the situation. "He can help you reach the finale."

"And then… he's supposed to win," Barnaby stammered. "You… you're basically saying I have to…"

"No," Caroline stood back, shaking her head, tears once again falling down her cheeks. "If it hadn't been you, then yes… yes I would have hoped for his victory. The rebellion can wait for their Victor if it means my brother has to die. But you reach that finale, you earn his trust, and then you…"

"I'm not a killer."

"You have to be," Caroline placed a hand on Barnaby's shoulder, before ruffling his hair with a sad smile, stretched from ear to ear. "You learn how to kill, or you die. And you're my baby brother. If you die…"

"I won't."

_Can I keep that promise?_

His sister had given him an idea. A volunteer from Eight. Draw the suspicion away, earn the trust of someone capable, someone who must know what he's doing, and make it to the end.

If only Barnaby were that kind of person.

_Of course I can't keep the promise._

He didn't have a chance.

* * *

**Amaya Devlin, 16 years old;  
District Six Female.**

* * *

_I am the girl who cried. That's all I'll ever be._

Amaya closed her eyes at the thought, repressing anger at herself for a wave of sadness that kept her frozen in the chair. It had been a long time since she'd done that. Since she'd allowed herself to break down the fortifications that held back how she felt, letting it all crumble down into a bout of sobs and shivers.

Now, she regretted it. With her mind piecing itself back together coherently, she knew that she'd made a massive mistake. It was realistic for someone reaped into the Games to cry. To show that kind of sorrow. But people held it back. They fought away what they wanted to show for what they had to show if they wanted any chance at being taken seriously

"I wasn't even strong enough to do that," Amaya whispered, letting her mind wander to what awaited her. The Reaping had come and gone. It would be her time in the Capitol soon, and then… then the Games. _And then… then I die…_

She wiped a stray tear that leaked from her eye and trickled down her cheek. She knew they were coming. Footsteps on the other side, quiet and purposeful, followed by a knock on the door that gave away their presence. Amaya straightened her back and tried to piece together fragments of a confident smile.

She was good at doing that. Too many years of forcing her lips upwards made the act easier to maintain. The old Amaya had found emotion natural. This Amaya found it… difficult. Because when _he _died, he took the joy and happiness from her life and left her with this.

All that stood between life and death was how well she could carry on. If the Reaping had given her a sign of what was to come, then she knew how little her chances really were. How little hope there was of returning. _Of returning to what? _Six had become a bleak void the day her Father died.

"In, come on." Amaya smiled at her Mother, who waved her two other children into the room. She gave the Peacekeeper a respectful nod, closed the door, and then turned to face her reaped, youngest daughter. "Amaya."

"Mother. I…"

"It's alright," she raised a hand, cutting her off. "I don't blame you. Anyone would have acted like that."

_She's lying. _Her Mother had always cared. But in the world of wealth and power, a world she'd always had ambition for, it didn't matter how you felt or the honesty behind your emotions. Her Mother had locked the ability to feel in a chest long ago and hidden away the key forever.

The fact Amaya had cried was the biggest disappointment possible. Because now she would be seen as weak. And being weak was the first step to total and utter defeat.

"Just think of it like this. Now that they've seen the worst of you, it can only get better."

Amaya met the eyes of her sister. She was the spitting image of their elder brother. Another reason why she'd always felt so ostracized from the Devlin family. The only person who'd ever understood had died and left Amaya fighting and trying to be the way they wanted her to be.

She'd been good at it. And now, with her sister smirking, all she wanted to do was cry and fume and rage and rant and throw this chair… _but I can't. Because if I do, there's no going back._

"Thanks," Amaya laughed, falsely, yet convincing enough to fool her siblings. Not her Mother, though. She knew more about Amaya than she did about herself. It was frightening.

"I guess you've just got to go in there and do whatever you have to do," Fletcher Devlin, man of the house, said. He spoke with ease, like this was something simple for Amaya to do. "We believe in you, Amaya."

"Then how could anything go wrong?" Amaya said it with a smile. Whether there was spite laced in her tone, she wasn't even sure herself. The way her Mother's eyes narrowed told her there probably was.

The three Devlins standing around her moved closer for Amaya. She waited for them to say more when all they did was help her onto her feet and wrap their arms round her. Even their family embrace was devoid of heart. Amaya felt nothing when her sister intertwined her fingers with hers. Or when her brother tried to make her laugh by whispering a joke in her ear.

The worst thing was when they pulled back and Amaya saw how little was in her Mother's eyes. She didn't want to be like her. Or like Fletcher and Candace. She hated what she'd become, constantly looking over her shoulder, believing the worst, hoping for nothing.

Everything she said was said like the woman stood in front of her. She'd become the very person that had sapped the soul from their life when her Father had been around to imbue it with warmth. Now with him gone… it was too late for Amaya.

"Just promise me no matter what happens, you won't hate me," Amaya sat back down, crossing one leg over the other. "Because I might have cried, but I'm not going to give up. I want to win."

That was the truth. Honesty. It was hard to come by but it was how she felt. The terrible suffocating fear was real and it hurt Amaya with every second it squirmed away inside of her, but maybe she could use that.

Maybe she could use everything her soul-sucking family had taught her. She was good at pretending for the sake of other people and herself. All in the name of strength, she'd never cried, she'd never raged, she'd never shown anything but smiles and laughs.

She'd been stuck between two worlds for far too long. The girl that lived when her Father had been alive, and the girl she'd become when her light had been extinguished and he died.

"We won't hate you," her Mother said, guiding her children out of the room. "We never have."

She was left alone.

It was the closest she'd ever get to an I-love-you. It was the closest she'd get to feeling like she was someone special. For now, it was enough.

All she needed in the Games was herself to survive. She didn't need friends. She didn't need love. She didn't need anyone but the girl sat in the centre, staring at the door, waiting to be escorted onto the train.

They'd all seen a crying, weak girl on the stage. Now, given a chance, she'd show them something completely different. Piece by piece, Amaya would fix the impression she'd made and be the girl she'd been for so long.

The old Amaya was dead.

She had to save this one.

* * *

**Travis Sauver, 16 years old;  
District Seven Male.**

* * *

Travis was having a hard time putting two and two together.

_Me plus the Hunger Games equals… what? _And yet here he was, reaped, sitting in some creaky chair, staring at a wooden door, waiting to be shipped off to a city that only ever really seemed a possibility in someone's dreams.

He'd never thought about anything outside of District Seven. Travis had never experienced anything but his life. And it had been a good life. He'd been… happy.

_And now they want to kill me._

He plastered a smile on his face. Whatever the case, imminent death and bloody dismemberment leering on the horizon, he refused to let them get him down. He'd had the wind knocked out of him when his name had been called and been made to look like a fool, sucking for air like a pale fish, opening and closing his mouth. But still, he was here, there was no changing that.

As much as his dignity had been wounded, he still had this time to enjoy himself. And that didn't have to end here with District Seven. The Games were a week away. At least in the Capitol, as terrifying as it might be, Travis could spend his last few days living his life the way he'd always lived it.

And he'd have new people to spend it with! _Maybe this won't be so bad… for now at least…_

"Bullshit, man!"

Travis was snapped from his thoughts at the sound of his friend's voice, Dawson of course, shouting and storming into the room. His face had gone a shade of red Travis had never seen before, his hands clenched into fists that shook at his side. _Aw, he cares. _Travis, any other time, might have poked fun at him, but now it only made him sad to see it.

"Well… what's done is done!" Travis tried to laugh, shrugging his shoulders. "You can take the Travis out of Seven, but you can't take the Seven out of Travis."

His two friends gave him a blank, confused stare. Travis laughed again and stood up, clapping Dawson on the shoulder, and then smiled at Joel.

"Er, you alright?" his tall, collected friend asked.

"No, but we got to make the most of this, alright. I just mean, when I'm in there kicking ass, you can expect me to not forget where I come from. Hell, people complain about this place all the live long day, but that doesn't change how much I enjoy it."

Dawson laughed. Joel's lips twitched upwards into the beginning of a smile; a smile that faltered and vanished from his pasty, fearful face.

He was starting to realise how everyone coped with misfortune in a different way. Dawson anger. Joel sadness. His family with tears. And then Travis… by hiding behind the truth with smiles and his usual, chipper, confident self. Everyone had their own coping mechanism in troubled times.

The three of them stood facing one another. It would have been easy for them all to stand in silence, wasting these final few minutes trying to piece together how they felt and the best way of coping with Travis going away. But that wasn't what Travis wanted to be remembered by.

He wanted to talk. He wanted to hear their voices. And even if his gentle giant of a friend ended up a blubbering mess on the satin carpet, at least he was _his _blubbering mess of a giant whose head brushed the fancy décor hanging from the ceiling.

The best friends anyone could ever ask for.

He tried to keep his eyes off of the clock as the three of them talked. It was hard to ignore the foreboding ticking of the hands as they counted his time down, but it seemed to be working, distracting himself with his friends whilst he tried to forget the fact that soon… soon he'd be… _no… no…_

"Look, you need to listen to what we have to say," Dawson said, jabbing Travis in the chest and pushing him back into the chair. "We don't want to see you mouthing off and getting them all on your bad side."

"Um-"

"No. We mean it. Think about your family and what they'll have to go through if you fuck it up and piss off the wrong people."

Travis waved the notion away casually, shaking his head with a chuckle. "I won't piss off anyone. I never do."

Dawson and Joel exchanged a look between them. A look that reminded Travis countless times of the kind of stares people had given him before. The words they'd exchanged and the way Travis, as usual, hid behind a lie to protect himself from the reality of how he came across when he wasn't thinking properly.

"Just… just try to at least keep quiet, keep your head down, and whatever fucking happens, keep alive."

Joel nodded. "None of us know any of the other kids in there with you. Even little Petra, as hard as it might be hurting a twelve year old kid, doesn't matter when it comes to you surviving, alright? I mean it Travis, no stirring shit with the big kids from One and Two. And those fish-fuckers from Four. You'll get yourself killed."

_Nice to see my friends have such confidence in me. _"If they have a problem with me, it's their own fault. I'm not going to change just to-"

"-Just to save your life? If I was in your position, I'd do anything to make sure I didn't die. I'd wear a wig and put on a dress and called myself Josephine if it meant I got to come home…"

It was now Travis and Dawson's turn to exchange a look. Joel quietened down immediately. Silence for a brief second, silence as his cheeks went a startling shade of maroon, and then the other two burst into laughter, punching him in the shoulder and clutching their stomachs, trying to contain themselves.

"Josephine-"

"You ain't got the bod' for a dress-"

"Fucking Josephine-"

Even as they laughed, Travis could hear the _tick tocking _of the clock. But this… this was the distraction he needed. His friends. Their… doubtful confidence in him which only made Travis want to prove them all wrong.

This was his life. This was what he was fighting to return to. Whether he really did have things to change about himself if he wanted to survive, he'd go on some kind of spiritual journey to his inner core later on.

Right now, he wanted to enjoy Joel's stuttering as he tried to worm his way out of what he'd just said, Dawson being an asshole as usual, and the way they all seemed to come together like three peas in an oversized, testosterone-infused, rambunctious pod.

_Bring. It. On._

For all of this, he'd tear the Games a new one.

* * *

**Eh. I feel like there's something wrong with this chapter. Maybe it's the fact goodbyes literally drain the life from me. The tributes are great, definitely, just eh on this chapter.**

**Anyway, though, that everyone is a wrap. For this pre-Cap stuff anyway! ;o**

**As always when it comes to this point in the story, I have a poll on my profile asking for your top five favourite tributes. And as always, please vote for five. Not four. Not three. Five. It helps, honestly.**

**I feel like I should mention something about the last chapter in regards to people's opinions on Theon. It's my bad with the way I started the POV and continued it on, but he doesn't have anything wrong with people touching him, it's just a natural response I'm pretty sure everyone would have if a Peacekeeper started shoving you around even if you're walking where they want you to walk. Yeah, he just doesn't like having those sort of people pushing him about, he doesn't have some phobia of physical contact. **

**Final note, anyone still interested in submitting to my new SYOT, please go ahead. It's AU so things are very different, check it out!**

**Onwards to the Capitol! :D  
**


	10. Clarity

**Chapter Ten.**

* * *

**Train Rides.**

* * *

**Uriah Valore, 18 years old;  
District Two Male.**

* * *

"Has he given you the look yet?"

Diantha raised an eyebrow, shaking her head. Uriah smirked knowingly and nodded over her shoulder. The two of them turned to see Brutus and Enobaria, their mentors, Two's pride and joy, side by side in a booth closest to the compartment door.

"What look?" Diantha asked, quizzically studying Uriah's face. He liked her for that. He knew she was keeping him at an arm's length, assessing for something, but she didn't give up on smiling at his jokes and having a bit of fun with him.

Honestly, he was downright thrilled to have someone who wasn't a total bore accompanying him. At least before they got to the nitty gritty of the Games, they had a chance to spruce things up with a little bit of fun. An unknown phenomenon apparently. Too few actually knew how to actually smile anymore.

"Any minute now Brutus will mutter something to that she-wolf you have guiding you, look at me, and frown. Then his eyes will do something nasty, and then he'll look away pretending he didn't just do that."

"Oh," Diantha giggled, quietly behind her hand. Her eyes lit up with understanding. "That look."

"The ol' I'm-gonna-fuck-you-up look that makes me want to leak my pants. He seems a pro at it."

"Maybe you should try and stay away from him then."

_You'd like that. _As much as the two were getting along, this was still a game with one survivor. And even if his mentor, embodying everything patriotic about Two at his core, looked at Uriah as if he was a stain on his shoe, he was still someone who knew what he was doing.

Uriah wasn't about to give Diantha the advantage of staying away from such advice. Especially if said tips meant he got to live a little bit longer. Or a whole lot longer. _Preferably seventy or so years. That'd be nice._

As long as he didn't get wrinkles, old-age seemed quite peaceful. First, though, he had a war to fight. A war he'd thrown himself at, quite excitedly, ready to take the bull by its horns and kill some kids. That part didn't exactly fill with him joy. But the winning part did. So killing… _killing it is then, I can't… wait…?!_

Before he could really piece together how he properly felt, Uriah was back to staring at Diantha, his District partner meeting his gaze, resulting in the corners of her pretty lips twitching up into some kind of smile. He liked it when she smiled. It brought out a light – albeit a very sinister light – in the blue of her eyes.

"Don't ya think we should probably get down to some mentoring?" Uriah asked.

Diantha looked back at the two adults, whispering to each other, Brutus indeed giving his assigned tribute the very same shit-inducing stare that made Uriah want to shiver in his seat, or throw himself out of the window and land in a bed of flowers.

_That'd be a story to tell when I get back! _

His District partner nodded and moved to the edge of the booth, vying for Enobaria's attention. When the dark-skinned woman, intimidating as ever, caught her eye, she nodded and fell silent. Uriah was well aware Brutus was looking at him and not Diantha. He chose not to meet his gaze.

"We both thought maybe it was time to talk," Diantha said, composed, polite, and respectful. Three traits Uriah had yet to pin down. Not that they exactly appealed to him either. He had his own way of going about things. _The best way!_

"The two of us like to discuss how we're going to go about strategizing before we interact with the tributes," Enobaria stated, the glint of her sharpened teeth catching Uriah's interest and leaving him rather… unsettled. He tried to show his usual confidence rather than the fear that rattled inside his stomach. That would not be a good impression to the Queen of Blood and Killing.

Strangely enough, Uriah really did want their respect. He wanted them to see hope in him. The same hope he'd seen in himself. _The same hope no one, not even the Academy, ever seemed to see in me._

_It's not fair._

"This one needs to stay quiet," Brutus said, pointing at Uriah. "Otherwise he might find himself in a precarious position come the formation of the Career alliance."

"This one?" Uriah smiled, jabbing a finger to his chest. "Oh shucks, you flatter me."

"Watch it kid."

"Watch it baldie." _I'm so getting punched. _"Come on, Diantha's right. We need to work on what we're going to do now. Now, now, now. Stop putting it off."

Diantha was trying to stay out of it, evidently by the way she moved closer to the window and didn't speak up. But Uriah spotted the hint of a smile on her face. It meant that he hadn't lost her yet. _Good. _She had her own game to play. He had one as well. In the Arena their little subtle dispute would be settled. For now they acted like friends, behaved like friends, felt like friends.

For now they really were friends.

"You think you could do a better job at this?" Brutus was losing his patience. Enobaria placed a hand over his own, stopping him from rising. "I could walk away and leave you without a guide. See how long you last when you have no clue what the fuck you're doing."

"We're not from Three, or Eight, or the mines of Twelve. We're from District Two. I trained. I think even without you I'd know what I'm doing," Uriah said, refusing to let this old man knock his confidence. But he wasn't stupid. He wasn't going to push him away, as hard as it was to bow down and kiss his boot. "But… I would like your help. So please, yeah, don't walk away. That wouldn't be cool."

The two mentors exchanged a look. Diantha met Uriah's eyes for a moment before breaking contact and staring out the window. He waited patiently for the two of them to say something else, say something along the lines of _'Okay, we'll help,' _or _'Fuck you kid.'_

Instead, they stood up, moved for their booth, and Brutus pushed Uriah further down and planted himself next to him, on his right, grinning at the laugh that left Enobaria's lips, baring those devastatingly remarkable, yet utterly terrifying fangs.

"Bet your boyfriend doesn't let you anywhere near his-"

"Uriah," she felt Diantha's foot connect with his shin, shutting him up with a pained squeal. "Sometimes you need to think before you speak."

"And sometimes my dear Diantha, you need to keep your feet to yourself," Uriah said, raising his leg to stroke the bruise that would be forming soon. "Don't kick me."

"Don't be an idiot."

"Well you don't be a-"

"Are you children finished?" Enobaria glowered at the two of them, forcing them to silence. _Maybe we really are children. Maybe I do need to… shut up. _"You wanted us to help now not later, so here we are to help."

"Would you like to tell us where you'd like to start, or…?" Brutus faced the two of them, looking between Uriah and Diantha.

The two tributes met each other's gaze, shrugged their shoulders, and looked back at Brutus.

"You're the pro," Uriah said.

"We'll leave it to you," Diantha added, smiling.

The two mentors sighed, shook their heads, and began their role in District Two's journey. A role Uriah, with a bruised leg and a frown on his face, knew he would fuck up if he didn't keep quiet, kept his thoughts to himself, and didn't piss off everyone around him.

_If only it were that easy._

This was going to be a long, long train ride.

* * *

**Zeara Kadnell, 17 years old;  
District Eight Female.**

* * *

It was a quiet ride; peaceful, yet oddly foreboding.

Kennedy and Rai, District Eight's mentors, had left the two of them to their own devices. Zeara sat further away from the television set, picking her fingernails, staring between the recaps and the window, seething at her shitty situation and the fear that she so desperately wanted to placate.

Arick was closer, struggling to memorize each and every face, picking out things that were invisible to the naked, unobservant eye, and studying them religiously. Zeara almost laughed. He wasn't as good at it as he thought he was.

In the reflection of the compartment door, leading to their assigned chambers, she could see the way his face was scrunched up frustratingly, nervous sweat building on his forehead.

_Oh well. _She wouldn't care for him. Some idiotic suicidal moron who wanted to actually volunteer for this didn't deserve her pity. _Or my help._

When the recaps finally ended, Zeara continued to keep a watchful gaze on her District partner. As much as she really, really didn't like him, or trust him for that matter, she didn't want to waste the opportunity to pick apart one of her enemies in this game.

Anything she could learn on him would benefit her in the near future. This wasn't a place for friends. This was a place where every man and woman had to fight for themselves.

Arick sat down closer to where Zeara was huddled up. She tried, unsuccessfully, to slide further down the booth and look away without gaining his attention. When he offered her a weak excuse for a smile, she forced herself to pick out distant shapes in the distance, shrouded in the darkness, the stars hidden behind clouds in the midnight sky.

_I hate this. I hate this. I hate this. _Zeara was trying so desperately to piece herself together. To give off the image that she was actually coping. Because one step on the long, terrifying road to success was at least looking the part. And in the face of someone who had volunteered, that impression was even more important.

She didn't want to give some Capitol supporter the satisfaction of seeing her squirm under pressure.

_Which makes it even harder to cope with that goddam smile on his face. _She could still see him, staring at her, in her peripheral vision. Zeara's fingers bunched into fists. She didn't want to say anything. She thought about those girls in the park who had almost snatched her notebook earlier today, before her life had been ruined.

She shouldn't have said anything then and she shouldn't be saying anything now. But like anyone, sometimes what you _shouldn't_ do, happened to be the very thing you _wanted_ to do.

"Is there something I can do for you?" Zeara asked, disgust laced in her tone.

She met Arick's eyes. His smile dropped for that same composed, dignified expression that made her want to punch him in the nose. He shook his head. "Nothing. I simply thought-"

"-Well do your thinking somewhere else. You're not helping."

"Oh," Arick's face twisted with something she hadn't seen yet. Something akin to awkwardness and reluctance. "I… I didn't mean to make you-"

"-Yeah," Zeara frowned nastily, "Yeah well you are."

A tense silence fell between the two. Neither was really done with their short, twenty second encounter, but neither really had anything left to say. Zeara didn't try to be so hostile. She didn't try to be so hard to get along with. It simply happened to be the state in her mind where a switch had been flicked and got stuck permanently.

It made life easier that way. So even when Arick stood up, said a nervous, apologetic, awkward goodbye, Zeara didn't move until he'd made it closer to the door. She didn't want to say anything else to him. She wanted him gone from her life and as quickly as possible.

But curiosity, like her aggressiveness, usually got the best of her. Usually being equivalent to pretty much always.

Zeara stood up and cleared her throat, catching his attention before he could press the button to open the door. Arick turned, rigid and almost fearful that he'd say or do the wrong thing again. Zeara didn't smile. But neither did she cuss or wave him away.

"I need to ask you something."

Arick half looked shocked, half looked like he'd expected the question that was about to leave her lips. He'd probably knew it would come up at one point.

"Why did you volunteer?" Zeara asked, stepping forwards an inch or so. "Why would you offer yourself up for this… this twisted shit?"

Arick didn't say anything. He moved for the door, opened it, stepped into the hallway and beckoned Zeara forwards. She paused and studied his face for a second, anxious yet curious. When he disappeared into his bedroom, she shrugged her shoulders and moved towards him.

_Might as well, _Zeara thought. _We'll both be dead soon._

The moment she entered his room, Arick closed the door and sat on his bed, nodding at a chair set just in front. Zeara sat down and waited impatiently for him to continue.

She hated mysteries.

"I'm not some killer addicted to the idea of murdering my way through a blood-sport," Arick said, slowly. "I mean… yeah I know that I volunteered for a situation that will inevitably mean I have to … to kill. But that-"

"-That doesn't make it better. You're still here, you're still part of this willingly, you're still ready to slaughter us. Me. You might even kill me."

"I would never-"

"-Don't say that. Because it could one day come down it, you know? Me versus you. Don't say never to something that might easily happen."

Arick gulped, swallowing a nervous lump in his throat. Zeara almost felt pity for him. Someone who clearly had a purpose in this twisted, corrupt system, obviously was supposed to be some intimidating, important figure. All she saw was a kid trying to justify his existence and failing to do so.

It made her sad. Then it made her angry.

He was still here to murder people who hadn't had any choice in the matter. They'd had their free will taken from them. He'd used his to be a part of it!

"I can't tell you everything because even I don't know all the details," Arick continued. "But I'm not working for the Capitol. I'm not some insane idiot who thinks they're the greatest thing to happen to Panem and that we'd die without them. I'm… I'm part of the-"

A metaphorical lightbulb flashed over Zeara's head. _Oh. Oh... _"I get it," she said, lowering her eyes nervously, then scanning the room with sudden fear in her expression.

Arick caught on immediately. "They swept through this part of the train for any bugs. The movement in Eight is more powerful than anyone would believe, they have their ways of getting into places they aren't allowed."

"So you're here to… to- to what?"

Arick frowned. Zeara did pity him. She was angry, confused and upset at the same time. Pissed off for her own situation, pissed off that the rebellion had required an eighteen year old kid to risk his life for their cause, but also pissed off that he'd followed through with it.

And pissed off at herself for doing the same thing over and over again. Pushing people away, holding them at a distance, and suffering because she couldn't… she couldn't trust anyone. Arick was just another someone that had to become a no-one to her.

"They think the best course of action is a figurehead for the rebellion. I'm here to win and become that person," Arick said. "I volunteered so I can give the cause what it needs."

Arick didn't look happy. Or apprehensive. Or even excited at the notion that he was the most important kid in a long time. He simply looked like he had a job to do. A job that had become who he was. A job that had taken Arick Greige from this world, crafted him into a tool to be used and manipulated by those that called themselves the saviours of Panem, and forced him to do things kids like him shouldn't have to do. Things Zeara was scared of doing herself.

She stood up. She didn't know what to say. Of course she wanted the Capitol to fall, of course she wanted this underground movement to succeed and eradicate this country of the corrupt, twisted scum that prevailed whilst everyone she loved suffered. Of course she wanted a better life for them all.

But that meant Arick had to win.

And for Arick to win…

_I have to die._

* * *

**Gwilym Collier, 18 years old;  
District Twelve Male.**

* * *

_So far so good. _Delora didn't hate him yet.

Gwilym attempted a pleasant smile in her direction. She met it with something similar and gestured to the television set, placed underneath a chandelier that hung from the ceiling, as dazzling as the rest of this train.

Even Gwilym, who rarely felt surprised or lost in awe of something above him, knew that this was a place he would have never seen in his lifetime. Or a thousand lifetimes. The Capitol had everything, and here they were, mere chess pieces to move across a board with the purpose to entertain.

When Delora looked away, Gwilym wrinkled his nose with disgust. He didn't like to feel angry, it didn't suit the goal he had in mind. The same goal he was pretty much sure everyone else had at the forefront of their mind.

_Victory. _Delora had to die for that to happen.

He wouldn't push her away just yet, however. He stood up and moved for the couch she was sat on, purple and plush, the same flamboyant tone of colour that the rest of this train compartment was smothered in.

"Anything interesting?" Gwilym sat to her left, staring at the television. "Or anyone, I should say."

Delora shook her head, keeping her eyes rooted on the screen. "Apart from the reaped girl from Four who accepted her place – weird as that is – everything seems pretty standard."

"Fair enou-"

"-Oh wait, yeah him," Delora pressed a button on the remote, freezing the screen. With this particular reaping paused, Gwilym studied the face of the boy on stage, then the number emblazoned on the bottom right hand corner of the screen in gold.

"District Eight?"

"Yeah," Delora said. "Some volunteer. It's strange, don't you think?"

_Very. _Gwilym hadn't seen many outer District volunteers in his experience of the Games in a long, long time. Maybe forever. And whilst he didn't want to put much thought in someone other than himself, it was hard to push that aside and focus on anything but what it might mean.

For his chances, as well as Delora's. A skilled fighter who came from a place that shouldn't know how to fight might prove a problem.

"Maybe we should ask Haymitch about it?" Gwilym said, already knowing what a stupid idea that was.

Still, there were rules in place, he was sure, that required someone to at least follow them. Delora didn't seem the sort of person to turn her nose away from what should be done. Something Gwilym respected about her.

Already she was showing initiative in actually wanting to see who her fellow competitors were. Though she was an obstacle, he respected her enough to not silently judge her hidden intentions.

He had some himself. It would be hypocritical if he disliked her because she might be keeping locked tight a secret strategy to win. Deep down, Gwilym was already making it a priority to not care too much about her. Acting polite and respectful, sure, he had that down to a tee. But actually caring?

_No, that would be a big, big mistake on my part. She has to die, I have to win. For now, I can at least act civilized. _

Delora seemed to not hear what he had just asked, however. When her lip curled somewhat at herself displayed on the screen, looking reasonably intimidating and focused, something Gwilym soon showcased himself, she still didn't seem totally happy with the impression she had made. Maybe she was just overthinking things. Maybe her image was one of the most important parts she had to get one-hundred percent right.

Whatever the case, Gwilym stood up without saying anything and moved for the door to the next compartment. He pressed the button, revealing a small, pale-faced man in a red uniform. Gwilym immediately fumbled for words, caught by surprise.

"I- er… yeah…"

The man smiled at him and gestured to a tray in his hand, several flute glasses filled to the brim with sparkling liquid.

Gwilym found his words and shook his head, politely. "No thank you," he declined. "I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of our mentor. He seems to be missing."

The Avox nodded, pleased to help, and then froze where he stood. His finger rose over Gwilym's shoulder and pointed back the way he'd just come, where Delora was sat, tables filled with food and… alcohol.

"Of course," Gwilym frowned. "Thank you."

He left the man to his own devices. When he entered the room, the repugnant smell of vomit mixed with vodka attacked his senses, knocking him back a step or two. Gwilym groaned and moved back for the couch, falling into the cushion and staring at Delora, raising an eyebrow.

"He's wasted," she whispered, obviously as irritated as Gwilym felt. "Should we do something?"

"-Gerald, gerroff!"

The two of them were interrupted by Haymitch swatting the thin air, waving a hand with a bottle in his grasp, alcohol swishing over the brim and falling to the carpet.

"Don't touch me you… oh hello…" he started to pucker his lips and move for the window.

Gwilym and Delora exchanged a look. She laughed. He only smiled, growing more and more annoyed by the second. There wasn't anything he could do, however. Whatever help Haymitch might have stored inside that head of his, it was currently focused on making out with a glass pane, the name '_Myranda' _being drunkenly slurred as his tongue went to work on the window.

"I guess it's just you and me," Delora said. "We can work out how things go I'm sure."

Gwilym stared at Delora. She seemed genuine. But growing up, Gwilym had learnt the most genuine were usually the people best kept at a distance. Whatever lies hidden behind her smile, Gwilym didn't hate her for them, but he was smart enough to mistrust her.

He mistrusted everyone.

Haymitch, slobbering over the glass. Delora, almost too happy to offer assistance. The Career girl who rejected a volunteer. District Eight with a willing tribute. Maybe even that Avox in the hallway.

Everyone had their secrets. Everyone had something hidden up their sleeves. It only meant he had to work three times as hard to make sure he came out on top.

Sure it would be difficult, sure it would be the worst experience of life, but Gwilym had come from Twelve. If there was one thing the two of them had over everyone else, it was living and adapting to the worst District in Panem, and the horrors surviving in such a place meant for their ability to make it further in life.

"I guess we do," Gwilym smiled back at her, extending his hand. This wasn't an alliance. This was two people mutually agreeing to the idea that lending each other aid would help in the long run. Delora was a tool Gwilym had to learn how to use. Like he was sure he was to her. "I'll scratch your back, you scratch mine."

"Consider it done," Delora nodded.

The two resumed watching the television, propaganda galore, as Haymitch burped and vomited over Gwilym's shoulder. Before he could then presume to kiss the poor boy, both tributes retired to their rooms for the night.

Gwilym found it impossible to sleep. This was really happening. The Hunger Games were a part of his reality.

There was nothing he could do to change that.

* * *

**So yeah… fast update.**

**Have I reached the point where I typically update like a madman? I'm not sure. I'll give the warning now that I honestly might post these chapters like crazy just in case, but this might be a one-off. I'm really not certain. I was just excited to move on from the pre-Capitol stuff.**

**If my other stories tell me anything, though, this isn't a one-off. So I guess I'll apologize now to those that find it hard to catch up. Yeah, sorry :/ It might be rude of me to say this, but those who typically do always review and haven't the last chapter, it'd still be cool to see what you have to say on those four tributes :)**

**I'll leave the poll on my profile for a little while longer, anyone who hasn't voted yet go ahead and pick your favourites!**

**Like always, the POV count has dropped to three per chapter for the Capitol. See you with the next one! (Whenever that may be, two days or a week, who knows!)  
**


	11. Beauty Queen

**Chapter Eleven.**

* * *

**Chariot Preparation.**

* * *

**Andryn Vitalli, 16 years old;  
District Three Female.**

* * *

Andryn found the whole situation difficult to process; fun, different, a world of opened doors; but terrifying. Pure, focused fear, set upon her and her future. Whether she'd live, or probably die. The outcome made it hard to distract herself.

Where they were sat, the pair from Three waiting, Andryn's foot was currently going to town on the floor, tapping a tune she hummed to herself, melodically filling the otherwise silent air with something to spice it up.

The Capitol so far had been one glass box followed by another. From the train they'd been whisked as a pair to a goliath of a building before being shuttled towards this one, escorted by tall, mysterious men in white uniforms.

The whole situation left a nervous, yet excited feeling bubbling away in the pit of Andryn's stomach. Every camera this evening would be pointed on her. Every television set would have her face broadcast across it, beaming a smile from ear to ear, pearly white teeth to distract a nation from its woes.

She loved the spotlight. And yet she was here with a boy who couldn't have been more the opposite of Andryn. It made her sad. Because whilst she tried to forget where they were headed, Huxley's frown and melancholia dragged her straight back down, into the pit where all her dread over dying lurked and found its home.

"Listen," Andryn whispered, nudging a daydreaming Huxley in the side, rousing him from his mind. "You haven't got anything to be afraid of whilst I'm around, alright? I've got your back."

He stared at her, blankly at first. Then the corners of his mouth twitched upwards, a faint glimmer of a grateful smile on his face, making Andryn giggle back at him, putting an arm round his shoulders and shaking him playfully.

"Um, A-Andryn," he tried to say, his voice going up and down as Andryn laughed.

When she stopped, Andryn heard a distant _whoosh _of an automatic door somewhere at the end of the room, accompanied by two men, the complete opposite of one another, walking towards them.

"Oh," Andryn giggled. "Guess we've got company."

"About what you said-," Huxley started.

"I meant it," Andryn said, beaming. "Whether we team up or not, for this bit I've got your back. I'll make sure you don't fall off that Chariot."

Huxley smiled, awkwardly. "And I'll… er… I'll make sure you don't… break a- a… nail?"

"Thanks!" Andryn pinched his cheek and stood up, turning her attention to the two men.

One of them wore glasses that completely covered the top half of his face, black with red rims, fire patterns streaked across the bridge of his nose.

The other; short, professional looking, with a curled up nose and pursed lips like some stubborn old grandfather back in the industrious part of District Three. Those that had squandered the idea of family for _technological achievement! _

Andryn had never, not once, seen the appeal. Life over petty ambition. Unless that ambition meant being the attention of everyone. Or… _my survival in the Hunger Games._

"Can I help you fine gentlemen?"

Fire-Eyes nodded his head, a charming smile gracing his features, completely at odds with the rather irritated scowl the other man shot Andryn, before his eyes moved for Huxley, huddled up on their waiting bench, trying to avoid eye contact.

"We have been ordered, my dear child, to escort you two to your prep-team."

"Ordered eh?" Andryn smirked. "Who's got your balls in a vice?"

Fire-Eyes blushed. At first, his face went for a frown, before he replicated Andryn's cheeky smile and laughed back at her. "Oh my dear. My balls are very much un-viced. I prefer them right where they are."

"Noted."

Before they could continue talking, the two men proceeded to fulfil their duties, Huxley tagging along behind Andryn, avoiding the shorter man's constant, unwavering gaze.

Andryn had half a mind to say something, sticking to her promise to have his back, when they turned down a hallway and Fire-Eyes stopped in front of a room. Four glass panels encased it, completely transparent, save for the small sheet of metal where the keypad to open the door was bolted in.

"Fancy," Andryn whistled, eyes focused on the man tapping away at the keys. "You guys sure like your big important doors."

"Security, love. I feel much safer with a perfectly robust door between me and some dirty scoundrel."

Andryn heard the other man grumble something. His eyes flashed between the two of them, before settling back on the floor. _Yep. _Andryn smirked. _We're obviously the dirty scoundrels in his book._

"Anyway, Andryn my dear, time for you to leave us and enter this room. Your prep-team will be in shortly."

"I'll see you afterwards," Andryn met Huxley's petrified stare. She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. "District Three is gonna wow the world tonight."

Huxley smiled as he was guided away, leaving Andryn to enter the room. Once she did, the door closed behind her, locking her in the box alone, left to curiously observe the shelves and trays and slab of metal situated in the centre.

"Well then. I guess we're going to be acquainted soon enough." She gave the piece of metal a slap, grinning. "You and my naked self. Can't wait."

With Andryn left to wander, she only had to wait a few more minutes for a door she wasn't even aware happened to be a door, to open at the back of the room. She thought she'd already adjusted herself to the weird fashion statements these funny little people liked to boast about flaunt.

Her prep-team, however, seemed to take it to a whole other level. Whether peacock-feathers, zebra stripes or extra limbs were fashionably acceptable or not, Andryn had no time to voice her thoughts before the three of them introduced themselves with names she couldn't possibly pronounce herself.

"So I-"

"On here little missy!" Miss Zebra chirped, stroking the metal. "Oh, don't forget we need to see all of you. Modesty isn't a thing here, my love. Take off your clothes!"

Andryn found it amusing how little that seemed to matter to them. The idea of stripping in front of strangers being the equivalent to asking for help on some homework, or offering her mother some aid with one of her paintings.

Andryn's cheeks went a dark shade of red as she disrobed. _This isn't the sort of attention I'm exactly… fond of… _Not that this was the sort of attention she'd ever, ever had. Sure, one day she might have reached this point back home, ready for… that. But she hadn't. So right now, standing stark naked in front of three characters from some kid's storybook, made her more embarrassed than she'd ever felt.

She was starting to understand Huxley and the way he laughed about sometimes wanting a hole to open up and swallow him entirely. If the building could collapse right now, Andryn would go for it without question.

"Is this the part where you touch my… lady bits?"

The three of them giggled. "Well, we'll see. We want to make you dazzling, my dear. Top quality for your stylist."

"Well then…" Andryn paused, frowning. "Have at it."

She lied down, closed her eyes, let her mind take her to a faraway fantasy, and waited for them to get to work. This was all in the name of making her stand out. Be recognised. Be remembered.

For that, Andryn was willing to suffer through anything.

* * *

**Petra Peverett, 12 years old;  
District Seven Female.**

* * *

Petra was being transformed before her very eyes.

Her stylist, Lilith, was a petite woman with blue, shimmering tattoos across her arms and chest, the designs curling up towards her neck and ending in spirals. She had light red hair, flaming eyes, and a smile that made Petra's blood run cold.

But with every dab of her makeup brush, every light chuckle that escaped those petrifyingly transfixing lips, Petra slowly found her confidence building up. More and more, by the second, Petra realised her breathing was becoming easier to handle, her heart wasn't beating like it was trying to escape its cage, and the nervous sweats had faded to a minimum.

She wanted this to be perfect. Ever since she'd been snatched from Seven, swept away on a train, and forced into this beauty charade, Petra had made it her one, true goal to at least appear… reasonably prepared. Otherwise… otherwise she'd only let herself down. And she couldn't have that.

It would kill her.

"I do sincerely apologise for their amateurish behaviour earlier, Petra," Lilith said, her hands moving for a brush on the tray to her right. "Sometimes they get ahead of themselves and don't realise that we're actually dealing with human beings. And you're twelve, I mean that's practically- well I mean you're practically a child."

"I am a child," Petra said, nervously biting her lip.

As much as Lilith tried to appeal to Petra on a normal level, she would never forget who she was, the way she seemed to brighten up at the sight of her in her control, and the simple fact that she was here and Petra was the one in the chair.

And she _was_ a little girl. As hardworking and independent as she strived to be, that was one thing Petra didn't want to forget. Little girls didn't have to be lost in the clouds. Little girls could be the most powerful of enemies. Where she was headed, Petra had already made the tough decision, a decision no girl her age, or any age, should ever have to make, to do whatever was necessary to see her family again.

In the Games, necessary had very dark implications. But so did living in Panem. Petra wasn't a stranger to the harshness required to survive.

"Of course," Lilith giggled, dragging the brush through Petra's curled, brown hair, dyed a light shade for the Tribute Parade. "I just meant- oh silly me. Sometimes I don't think before I speak. You're a child and any child should enjoy such an occasion. Though it's very sad where you are, you'll still be the source of envy for a million girls around the country. Enjoy it!"

Lilith squeezed Petra's cheek. Lovingly, she supposed it was meant to come across. Petra found it more along the lines of invasive. She smiled and hugged Lilith, however, when she went for a quick, friendly embrace.

Even stylists had influence in places. Petra was no idiot. If she was going to have a chance, she had to do whatever had to be done. She'd never liked upsetting people at home either. Something about leaving Lilith in all her repressed naivety, arms lengthened out for a hug she'd never receive, made Petra's heart fall.

Whether Petra hugged her out of self-preservation or kindness, she didn't spend long thinking about it. Lilith was up and out of her seat, quickly putting the brush back down and clapping her hands together merrily.

"I'm just going to get the final pieces for you ensemble, Petra dear. We'll make you the star of the show."

"Thank you Lilith. Truly."

Lilith beamed. Petra smiled back at her until she was out of sight. When she was finally alone, a long, lengthy sigh left Petra's lips, a breath she hadn't been aware she'd been holding released to the air around her.

She moved her legs over the preparation chair and swung them, back and forth, staring around the room as she waited patiently for Lilith to return. It was at that moment she saw movement coming from behind the pane of glass to the front of her.

One of the hard parts about being here was the fact she felt like she'd been encased in a fragile tomb, four walls around her, two doors that were locked without the right number combination, leaving Petra in the arms of the Capitol entirely.

She had no freedom here. Though she didn't try to fight out against it, the alarming rate her sense of control was falling made her scared. Even more scared than she already was.

The movement, however, proved to be footsteps. Footsteps that belonged to her District partner, Travis, who appeared from the other side of the glass, silently waving at Petra when he caught her eye.

She smiled back at him, eagerly waving her hand and standing up. Though he was a bit much at times. And though the smile on his face was a little… off-putting, Petra being completely aware that so many secrets, dark and painful secrets, could be hidden behind kindness, she… liked him.

There wasn't much to dislike about him. Confident, far too confident actually, and deluded in his own importance, but kind. And in this world, Petra appreciated someone who knew how to be kind.

He waved again, the glass obscuring volume. Travis motioned down to the glass pane, a spot in the centre where he bent down and started to mist it over with his breath. Petra watched, curious, as his finger started to draw something in the grey blur marring the otherwise clear glass.

'_W…I…L…L…Y…O…' _a few seconds later, Petra saw, back to front, the question: _'WILL YOU ALLY WITH ME?"_

Underneath it, Travis smiled at Petra and used his breath to mist the glass and his finger to draw two boxes. _'Y _or _N.'_

_Travis… _Petra tried not to show her discomfort. The fake smile was still on her face, strained and forced, but at the sight of his eagerness, and such a bold question put onto her shoulders so quickly, Petra felt the pressure easily surmount until she experienced the nerves eating away at her once more.

He was a good person. And though Petra was no true evil, she knew, despite her age, that inside her head she was aware of more things about where they were headed than he was. He was stronger. Fitter. She was no muscle gal herself. Barely on par with a stick insect.

But… but he was from Seven. When she met his brown, warm eyes, Petra's heart started to shudder against her ribcage, her smile waned, and she took slow, short steps towards the back to front writing.

It was a proposition she… couldn't take. Because this was a place where only one person could win. If Petra wanted an alliance, which she did, it would have to be with people that held no connection to her. Where when they died, she wouldn't feel as much guilt as she would over seeing someone from home perish before her.

Such a sight might break her beyond repair. At least this way she was saving them both further down the road.

When her finger touched the box, an invisible strike upwards marking a tick, answering no, Travis' smile fell and all the light left his eyes. He stared at Petra, confused, hurt, and in utter disbelief.

But he didn't stare for long. Lilith returned moments later, and when Petra looked back over her shoulder, her District partner was gone from sight.

"Come on, let's get you ready!"

Lilith held up fabrics, colours that melted into other shades of nature that made Petra's heart leap into her throat. Though on the outside, this could all be perceived as standing out for the shallow purpose of vanity, underneath it all, Petra saw the merit of impressing those in the Capitol with how she looked.

Petra was no fool. Twelve years old, weak looking, and from District Seven, they were all counting her out for good.

Here, that had to change. Today, she laid the groundwork for her journey to come. They were expecting a dead girl. So she had to show them something else. Something more along the lines of hope.

Hope that she had a chance, however low the odds might be.

* * *

**Arick Greige, 18 years old;  
District Eight Male.**

* * *

"Ta-da!"

Arick and Zeara looked over one another's reflection, side by side, sizing up what would get them through today. He'd been told this would be important. More than just important. It would be crucial of him to get the Capitol's support for the Games.

The Capitol was where it all came to pass. Where everyone made decisions, made their moves, and hoped to counteract their opponents' attempts to one-up them. Arick knew he had to make a good impression.

And yet, staring at his outfit, the smile that made its way to his face was more out of need to at least look grateful, than the fact he felt anything legitimate. Because he didn't. It was a pile of clothes. Ratty and worn, contrasting with the pinkish, frilly ball-gown Zeara was resplendent in, the aggravated grumbling and irritated frown made Arick want to laugh.

"The Princess and the Pauper!" His stylist cheered herself, clapping her hands together and beaming, cheeks red with enthusiasm. "Don't you just love it?!"

Zeara pulled a glittery bit from the poofy part on her shoulder. "And this is supposed to represent Eight… how?"

Arick smiled. If there was one thing he enjoyed about this whole thing, the one thing that distracted him from where he was and what he had to do, it was Zeara. Though he wasn't entirely positive she liked him. Or positive she cared. He could at least say they were getting along. He understood her. She understood him.

They were on equal terms.

"Well. District Eight isn't exactly drowning in gold is it?!"

Zeara's empty stare was enough of an answer to satisfy Arick's overeager stylist.

"Soooo, I thought we show them what you are," she gestured to Arick's patchwork, underwhelming display. "And we show them what, with your District's industry and expertise, anyone can become." And then she cheered and placed both hands on Zeara's shoulders, shaking her with a boom of a laugh.

Arick looked at his District partner out the corner of his eye. He could tell she was on the edge of blowing up entirely. Though he hadn't found anything to like about the Capitol so far. And though really, they were the exact reason he was here, to take them down and win for the rebellion, she was a shallow, but desperate person that he couldn't be angry at.

All she needed was something that would tell her they were happy.

Arick gave her just that. "It's great, thank you." He played with the broken top button of his shirt. "I think the idea is ingenious."

Like he'd thought, she started to tear up with gratitude, kissed Arick on the cheek, and left the room to go get someone to escort them down to the stables. It left Arick and Zeara, alone, in a glass box to stare at one another, neither knowing what to say.

Though she was no longer angry at him, Arick knew she was still struggling to wrap her head around why he was here. The purpose was hard enough for Arick himself to deal with. The seed of doubt his brother had supplanted in his head had grown enough over the years.

But ever since the train, ever since all those faces, the notepad back in his trouser pocket with all his observations, and his mentors with all their advice, he was starting to worry even more about his place here. Zeara had crucial information on him. Maybe he'd been too trusting to simply impart it without sussing her intentions properly.

But a small part of him had wanted her to find out. A small part of him wanted them all to find out. At least then he might be able to breathe without the burden of his existence threatening to topple him over completely.

At least then he might get to feel normal. Rather than feel imperfect because he wasn't the right leader for a rebellion. He could feel imperfect because like any normal teenager, he simply wanted to be everything he could never be.

Looking at Zeara, he realised he was jealous. She was angry. She hated so much about the Capitol. And her terror was justified because she hadn't chosen this. But she had lived her life, however bad it might have been, without feeling like her only purpose was to be something for someone else.

Her bitterness came from something quite the opposite.

"I know you don't like this," Zeara finally whispered, breaking the tense silence. "Though whether you like this less than I do, I'm not quite sure." She picked at the glitter on her sleeve and wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"You…" Arick paused, trying to find his words. "You look like an oversized m-marshmallow…"

At first, he thought he'd made a mistake. Did Zeara take jokes like he thought other people were supposed to? Was she too upset to see a funny side? Did she want to punch him?

Arick fumbled for an apology when Zeara's gentle chuckling stopped him from saying anything. They met each other's gaze and Arick blushed, his eyes falling to the ground where he dragged his tired old shoe around in awkward circles, distracting himself.

"I don't hate you, Arick." Zeara said, nudging him in the arm. "I don't like what you are. Who made you do this. And what you're here for. But I understand the reason, the purpose, and the overall goal."

"If it makes you any better, _princess, _I don't like it either."

Zeara frowned, sadly. "Thanks, _pauper. _It's good to see you're actually human like the rest of us."

"I wouldn't say we were all human…" Arick nodded at the window where his stylist was returning. Zeara muffled a laugh behind her hand and stared at the woman, biting her lip to mute herself.

There was something about being with her that made Arick's confidence feel natural, rather than forced. Where he didn't have to pretend. He'd been trained to forsake real emotion for the idea that he had to be a perfect soldier for his parents and the Districts.

But with her he was a teenage boy, a teenage boy who could smile, laugh, make awful jokes, and feel bad about himself for the same reasons everyone else did.

He'd give anything, the entire reason he was here in the first place, to feel like forever. But they didn't live in a world where people got to have everything they wanted. And whether or not he had an idea of what his perfect life could be, this wasn't the place, nor time.

He had a job to do. He had to make it seem like he was simply here for a deluded idea of glory. A deluded idea that he had a chance – like the Careers, playing upon his strengths, belittling others for their weaknesses. The Capitol had to see him for something he wasn't.

And the other tributes… if they feared him for volunteering, then so be it. And if they hated him, then he'd have to cope. He was here for them. Even the Careers. They all deserved a better life and if he had to play the pauper, play the bloodthirsty volunteer, and pretend to be someone he wasn't for the sake of survival, then that was his calling.

Not the life Zeara had. Not the life of scowls and insecurities and bitter inclinations towards boys that got the girl, or boys that were better than him at math, or boys that were better looking. He wasn't that sort of teenage boy.

He wasn't a boy at all.

_I'm a soldier. _That was simply who he had to be; all he was allowed to be. _A soldier to fight the Capitol._

* * *

**Aye another chapter!**

**Sooo reviewers hello, I need someone or more than one person to tell me what they think I should do. Though I'm writing this story mainly because I enjoy writing it, reviews obviously motivate me, and with the last chapter being updated so quickly, the reviews seemed to have been cut in half. (insert sad face.)**

**So yeah, should I go back to weekly updates? Should I stick with this? Hm. I don't know. Some opinions would definitely help!**

**I'll leave it with that. Poll results are up on my profile, congrats to the winner! Megan you've done it again. First Aurelie, now Theon ;D **

**Hope you enjoyed this chapter!**


	12. Storms and Saints

**Chapter Twelve.**

* * *

**Chariot Rides.**

* * *

**Riena Ledwell, 18 years old;  
District One Female.**

* * *

They were nearing the stables.

Riena tried to stay as close to her mentor, Tallis, as possible. Alston kept offering her waves over Prosper's shoulder, winking when she caught his eye, and laughing quietly when Riena quickly distracted herself with something else.

Although she didn't take it upon herself to immediately dislike someone – quite the opposite really – she'd come to understand that Alston was a guy you _really _had to get to know before… liking him.

Riena had tried to be patient with him on the train. In the Games, she knew it would start to wear thin.

"Now's as good a time as any to try and get the group together," Tallis advised, the wrinkles on her cheeks curling up alongside her pleasant, trademark smile. "Most year the Pack likes to get to know one another before tomorrow starts."

"That's training, right?" Riena asked.

"Yes, tomorrow training begins, three days of it," Tallis said. "After that, well- I'm sure you both know exactly what's to come. Don't mind me, sometimes I forget who I'm talking to."

Tallis laughed. Prosper grinned, something Riena was more than happy to do. She looked to see what Alston was doing when everything that was currently going on became obliterated by a wave of noise that took over her hearing.

They'd entered the stables. Her eyes first hovered over the horses, two for each Chariot, draped and covered and enrobed in the finest fabrics and jewellery, or wheat and fruit to represent each District. Riena took it all in, absorbing every fine detail with awe in her eyes.

She was here to focus. Here to do what every Career came here to do. But she wasn't going to ignore the more interesting sides of this process in favour of being a complete and utter bore. The sheer magnitude of such a small, insignificant cog in the grand machine made her eyes widen.

The tributes themselves were either muttering to their District partners, their mentors, or standing by themselves, most of them in a trance by the loud noises coming from behind the closed door a few metres in front of One's chariot.

Riena quickly composed herself. When Tallis placed a warm, gentle hand on her shoulder, Riena focused on the way in front rather than everything that was distracting her from her peripheral vision.

Alston had bounded forwards, eagerly hopping up onto the Chariot and stroking the horse's mane, laughing to himself when it whinnied and shook his hand away.

Riena chuckled and stood by the side of the chariot, nodding her head at him when he looked back down. "This is great, Riena." He sounded like a little child. A hypnotized, entertained child. "Dare me to ride one. Go on."

"I'm not going to-" Riena stopped herself from indulging him. She'd already come to realise he enjoyed a challenge.

_That's putting it lightly. _

She'd taken a sip from an alcoholic beverage and he'd proceeded to chug three entire bottles until he was passed out on the floor.

Anything she did, he seemed to want to do better. At least he did it with a smile. Whatever his intentions, Riena found Alston irritatingly entertaining.

"We should probably leave you two now," Prosper said, stroking the same horse Alston had seconds ago been trying to pet. "Just go with it, alright. Do what you feel is best in the moment. There's no right or wrong way."

"If I punch Alston, I think that might count as a step in the wrong direction." _Am I serious, or am I joking? _Riena laughed at Prosper's expression and shook her head. "I'm kidding."

This whole situation was eating away at her stomach, her nerves on haywire. It was like the party before the reaping but only a thousand times worse. In a few minutes, she wouldn't just have the attention of the entire Capitol channelled towards her, but every District that inhabited Panem and all its citizens. They'd be staring at _her. _Watching her. Judging her.

Riena didn't care for what they might think exactly. But all that… attention. It made her light-headed when she accepted Alston's offer of assistance, hoisting her up onto the chariot as she held her dress down so it didn't blow upwards.

Once she was settled, Prosper linked arms with Tallis and the two nodded proudly at their tributes.

"Oh and remember to smile. A tribute who knows how to smile can win a lot of favour with people in important places," Prosper said.

"And lose it with tributes that want to cut your head off," Tallis chuckled, patting Prosper on the shoulder. "You and I both know that a little too well."

Riena wanted to ask more. She respected them. Tallis nearing her fifties and Prosper in his late twenties. Alston was already distracted by the horses again, but Riena… Riena knew that they were aware of how this had to be played. And maybe they were nice people, but they couldn't have been too nice to not see how this had to be. They had won after all.

But she didn't have the right question to form into words before they were walking off, time up, leaving Riena to tap nervously on the bar which she could hold onto for support.

"You wouldn't really punch me, right Riena?"

She looked at Alston, who was half smirking, half narrowing his eyes. She shook her head and smiled as best she could to build faith between the two of them. A bond between District partners was important. This wasn't a game of trust, but this wasn't a place, no matter what, where she would stab someone in the back for an advantage.

She just hoped Alston wouldn't do that either. If she pushed him away, there was no telling what he might do in the future.

"I promise you Alston, I don't plan on punching you."

He smiled. "Good, otherwise I might have to push you over the edge."

"And let me get trampled by the horses?"

"Don't worry, I'd steer them out your way."

Riena wanted to focus on settling her stomach and the headache that was beginning to pound away at her skull, but Alston was staring at her, grinning, so she laughed instead. "How?"

"Didn't I tell you I wanted to ride one?"

"More like you asked me to dare you to risk breaking your neck. But whatever gets you going," Riena said, facing the front. "It'd catch the attention of our allies, that's for sure."

Alston looked behind them, no doubt observing District Two. Riena wasn't quite sure she was ready yet for that. When the time came, she'd be as responsible as she could be, and if there was trouble, she'd put out the fire before it became too intense and threatened to swallow up their alliance's potential.

But right now, even if this was a good time to unite the group together, Riena wanted to focus on herself and herself only. This was where _her _first impression mattered. Not Alston's. Not anyone else's.

She couldn't impress if she vomited up her dinner. That might ruin everything she had going for her – even if she had trained, the Capitol valued appearances. A vomit stained dress would jeopardize her future.

"Remember what Prosper said," Riena whispered, taking a deep breath. "Smile."

Whether she was saying that to Alston, or to herself, she wasn't entirely sure.

But as long as she did just that, everything would be okay.

* * *

**Travis Sauver, 16 years old;  
District Seven Male.**

* * *

"I'm sorry Petra, I shouldn't have-"

"-Don't worry, Travis. It's okay."

_It's not okay. I feel… I'm not sure what I feel, but I don't like it. _"I understand it's a bit early. And I did just throw that at you without being able to even talk it through. Maybe if you gave it some time, you might reconsider."

The pair from Seven were stood, hip to hip, patiently waiting on their chariot. Travis was dressed like a slutty lumberjack, shirt ripped open at the chest, shorts cut up to the thigh. His eyes were made to look all smoky, his face lathered in make-up to emphasize his features.

Obviously the idea had been meant for the two of them.

Thankfully, Petra had been given something else to wear more appropriate for her age. Whereas he was supposed to be playing up the sexy angle, she was a sweet fairy of some sorts, wings and all. It made Travis smile. And it made him sad. Because she was such a frail thing, all skin and bones, and they expected her to be able to handle this.

At least maybe he had a chance. The Games' history didn't really speak well for twelve years olds in this brand new, awful, terrifying world they'd been thrown into.

"Travis, I'm not-"

He interrupted her as quickly as he could. "Time. Yeah, time. I mean there are other people aren't there? Give it time."

"Travis I don't-"

He was already distracted. It had always been a thing of his. Petra's voice quickly faded to a mumble and then to total silence as her frail hands delicately tightened round the bar, steadying herself as they waited for the door to be opened.

Travis, though, wasn't as easy to coerce into standing idly by without something to do. He looked over his shoulder and caught the sight of Eight's chariot, led by two horses that were staring at the ground, unaware of their new visitor.

"Heya!" Travis called, cheerfully over the animals' heads. Still, they didn't look up. _They're not… dead or nothing. _Before the two tributes could reply, he stretched over and poked one, jumping back with a startled yelp when they looked up. _Can animals… glare? Is that a thing?_

He didn't have time to delve into the complexities of animals and their emotions. The boy and girl from Eight, one dressed in tattered clothing, the other stuffed into an oversized pink, frilly pillowcase of a dress, stared at Travis, one of them friendly, the other apprehensive.

It was Miss Scowl and Furrowed Eyebrows that answered his call. "What?"

_Straight to the point, huh?_

Travis, not so easily put off, smiled and tried to lean forwards without ruffling the horses and aggravating them further. "Just one tribute trying to get to know his fellow competitors. Thought I'd say hey."

"You've said it," the talking marshmallow said.

Travis laughed. "You're all smiles aren't you?" He looked at the boy instead, quiet next to her. "My name's Travis."

"Zeara," she said, before he could. "And this here's Arick."

"And can This Here's Arick speak for himself, or is he a… oh you aren't, are you?" Travis frowned. "I mean-"

"No, I can speak." Arick grinned, looking at Travis, then at his District partner. "I'm just not so… you know. Good at it."

"Good at speaking? Is there such a thing as being bad at speaking?"

Arick blushed. Zeara's brow furrowed even more, so much so Travis was half convinced it was about to snorted up her nostrils. He almost laughed at the thought of it happening. The expression carved into her face stopped him from doing so.

"We're not all obnoxiously irritating like you," Zeara snapped. "Are you really just a friendly tribute trying to get to know his fellow competitors, or are you a tribute trying to rack up some early kills by talking us to death?"

He stuttered over his next words. Zeara raised an eyebrow and smirked. Arick couldn't help but smile. They started to move to face each other, pushing Travis to the side, when he finally found his voice.

"In my defence, I don't actually think you can kill someone by speaking. Biologically, I mean. Unless there's something I don't know about the human body, in which case-"

"Travis," Petra whispered, from by his side. "I think she means tone it down or go away."

"Oh," Travis said, frowning. "Oh… right…"

Petra fell to silence again. Travis looked back at Arick and Zeara and attempted another friendly grin. "Round Two, okay. So I'm Travis and I'm from District Seven. I don't think I know when to shut up but that's mainly because I try to be all friendly, and then when I'm trying to be friendly, I get this overwhelming urge to not stop talking, and then it becomes this sort of weird compulsive, over the top, try-hard verbal diarrhoea-"

"Travis," Arick said, clicking his fingers, red in the face, but a smile in his eyes that made Travis feel a little bit better about the situation. "I'm Arick. This is Zeara. We're District Eight. You're Travis, District Seven." Arick paused. "You… you seem nice."

Travis fumbled over his own tongue to say something back. Zeara seemed to have warmed up a bit, less of a frown and more of an attempt at something friendly. Maybe it was encouragement to keep going.

He looked at Petra, facing forwards, oblivious to his eyes on the top of her head, and then down at his abomination of an outfit. Thirty or so minutes ago, he'd proposed an alliance, been turned down, and made to be a fool. And he knew, given time, no matter what, she wouldn't change her mind.

But he just wanted an alliance. He wasn't trying to be naive about it. He wanted to win. And to win he had to… kill. And as bad as that was, it was a necessary part of his new life.

That didn't mean he wasn't any less of the Travis Sauver that had come from District Seven. That boy was still alive and kicking. That kid had had friends. Had a lot of friends. Enjoyed his life, ignored the haters, and continued surviving with a smile.

Because he'd felt wanted. And in here, to feel wanted, he had to have a….

"Do you want to be in an alliance with me?!" Travis practically yelled, back at Arick and Zeara.

"It's starting," Petra muttered. Travis could barely hear her over his own heart thumping away in his chest. "Travis, it's-"

He felt her tug on his top. Travis ignored her and smiled at the two from District Eight, both of them exchanging a look, Zeara frowning, Arick smiling.

"What makes you think we're in an alliance?" Zeara asked, turning back to face Travis.

"It's obvious," he shrugged his shoulders. "You care about each other."

Arick blushed again. Travis was surprised his face hadn't melted off yet. Zeara, however, sighed and looked down at her feet. _What's up with her? _He nearly opened his mouth to say something when the loud groan of the doors pulled him back from his overeager thoughts.

_Oh… it's starting…_

"At least give me a chance," Travis shouted, the noise coming from beyond the stables deafening, drowning out what he had to say. "I PROMISE YOU I'M WORTH IT-"

There was no use in saying anything else. In five seconds, District One started to move and Travis was forced to hold onto the bar for dear life. This was the part he was supposed to excel at. He could get people to like him. People always liked him…. always… usually… _sometimes. _

And then tomorrow, Arick and Zeara. He could do this. He was good at this. Friends, teams, groups, relationships.

The Games were a close threat, but right now, he was in his element.

Right now, Travis had a job to do.

* * *

**Fira Trevalle, 18 years old;  
District Eleven Female.**

* * *

In a place with so many loud characters, Fira appreciated the brooding, silent nature of her District partner.

District Eleven's chariot was about to roll out, the two from Ten disappearing into the flashing lights and cheers of the Capitol. Emigdio was doing his absolute best to force a gracious smile onto his face. One thing they'd been told was to make it seem that they were happy to be here.

As if the people who were going to cheer for their deaths were the type of people Fira and Emigdio had to like. Because they were. As hard as it was for Fira to accept, these blood-sport fanatics could potentially be the key to surviving.

She wasn't about to pass up an opportunity at living a little longer. Any hurdle she had to jump, she was already there.

"You look constipated," Fira murmured, trying to break the ice. Though she definitely appreciated the fact Emigdio wasn't all in her face, and as much as Fira definitely preferred her solitude, there came a point where things took a turn in the direction of becoming awkward. "Relax, it'll be okay."

Emigdio didn't meet Fira's eyes when the chariot lurched forwards. Fira had to steady herself with one hand on the bar to stop from toppling over the side and onto the ground. The startled shout that left her mouth was luckily drowned out by the sheer volume of what they were being greeted with.

Even District Eleven, scummy little peasants in their eyes, could be the star of the show. And when they were killing and dying, everyone would love them, cheer their name, and forget who Emigdio and Fira were five minutes later.

The thought made Fira impossibly sad.

"All I'm saying is you have to try a little bit harder," Fira whispered out the corner of her mouth. He had the strong silent intimidating thing down to a tee. Something Fira would never have on her side. But even when she pushed herself to wave for these applauding fools, at least she did it with enthusiasm. "I don't mean to push you into something you don't want, but… well I mean, this isn't exactly a normal parade. Life or death, you know, the whole reason we're here."

"The reason we're here is because these people need a reminder of who's in charge. Even though we're the people who give them everything."

Fira paused. She couldn't argue with that. All her life she'd worked hard to support her family and her District. Really, when she thought about it, everything she did was for the Capitol. Without the Districts, the Capitol had nothing but their fancy technology and flamboyant sense of fashion.

And without the Districts, they didn't have pawns for their Games. It'd be a sad, sad world when they ran out of _District scum._

Fira realised she was getting far more irritated than she'd planned. When they ended their first lap and moved onto their second, she plastered the smile on as thick as she could. Anyone from home would find how overly fake it was revoltingly laughable. The Capitol just wanted to be acknowledged and loved. They didn't care how too good to be true a smile was from a tribute.

Finally, they came to a halt in front of the President's mansion. Fira stopped a plastic fruit from falling from her headpiece when their chariot jolted to a stop. Fira didn't bother saying anything to Emigdio. She knew that what she was trying to give the Capitol was the better strategy, but that didn't make it any easier.

All she had to do now, to repay them for everything they'd done, was win and make it back to prove them that Eleven could do it. As the President made his speech, she tried her hardest to push aside what that meant for Emigdio and his children waiting at home. Or any of the other innocent tributes who were in her position.

They couldn't be anything but tributes. The situation was disgusting but she was stuck here. What more could she do but play the part?

"At least that's over and done with," Emigdio said.

Fira looked up at the President and realised his monotonous, repetitive speech was over with. She sighed, exhaling a deep, pent-up breath. "We never have to do that again."

"Maybe I can finally put a shirt on," he grumbled, picking at the pastel coloured pattern decorated across his chest. "As much as I'm… nervous about where we're headed, I'd rather we just got there, you know?"

Their chariot started moving forwards. Fira nodded, though. She understood exactly how he felt. "Better to get it over with. All this glitter is to cover up the inevitable waiting for us."

They came to a stop. Though Emigdio was gruff and seemed to clench his fists whenever he was so easily annoyed, he was a gentleman, a kind, honest person. He helped Fira out of the chariot, nodded at her and bid her a quick goodbye before they could be enveloped by their mentors and stylists.

It had already been established they wouldn't be in an alliance. Emigdio had his children to think of. Any connection with someone from home might put him in a situation that would be hard to make a decision from. Fira sympathised with him. It was the same for her. Though she didn't have any children, at the end of the day, she wanted someone useful but… expendable.

Someone she didn't quite care about, but someone she could trust enough to get places in the Games.

Someone like…

Her eyes met his when he looked up. Fira quickly looked away, slightly embarrassed at first, but turned her head to match his gaze. It wouldn't do her any good if she appeared weak at this early stage. She wasn't some meek, timid pushover.

Gwilym Collier's lip twitched upwards, an ever so subtle smirk on his otherwise composed, coal-dusted face, before he moved in her direction.

_Someone like him._

"If you're the type of person I think you are, I trust I don't need to introduce myself."

Fira smiled. "I do my homework. Gwilym Collier, District Twelve. I'm Fira Trevalle, District Eleven. You can probably tell from my-"

"Melons?" Gwilym smirked, laughing. "As dazzling as that headpiece is, I'm sure we both know each other for the same reason. We actually want to know who we're going into the Arena with."

"I like to be productive. Gives me a reason to keep on going," Fira replied.

He was the sort of guy Fira could never be close to, would probably rather punch in his smarmy nose, but could ally with because he was useful enough to help her get as far as she could before she could go out on her own.

That was the sort of person Fira wanted. Emigdio wasn't her friend. But he was from home. He had a piece of her family and friends inside of him. It would be like killing someone she loved if she had to see him die before her.

She wasn't trying to be heartless. But in here, if she didn't think in terms of bettering herself, of throwing people under the bus for her own sake, then she would die and she couldn't accept that.

Gwilym was the tool she had to use.

"I don't think we're allowed to invite people back to our floors. Maybe tomorrow we could arrange some sort of agreement?-"

"An alliance, you mean." Fira stated. The proposal was practically on the tip of his tongue. First impressions meant a lot. Hopefully she had impressed him.

"Not to overstep, but yes. Yes. An alliance," Gwilym said.

Fira started to prepare herself to leave. "Tomorrow we see what each other can do. No point having an alliance with a guy who can barely look after himself, let alone me."

"I didn't think you'd need someone looking out for you. You seem… capable…" Gwilym said.

Fira smiled. "And you seem like you know something that you don't care to tell. Whatever, tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow."

They left it at that.

Fira went one way. Gwilym the other.

She'd taken the first step. Only a thousand more to go.

* * *

**And we're making progress!**

**Anyone who has read my stories knows I don't really focus on the outfit side of what this chapter means. First, I'm not creative enough to come up with all the outfits. And second, I'd rather spend more time on the tributes than what they've got on.**

**Alliances are already coming together. Nothing is confirmed until after training and I post it on my blog, but keep an eye out for who will be teaming up with who. I try to cover everyone but not every alliance will get the same amount of spotlight straight away.**

**Just to finish, lil add on, it was my birthday yesterday :) How 'bout as a happy birthday for yesterday present y'all could give me a nice little review. Yeah I'm so thirsty. But think about it ;P**


	13. Ignition

**Chapter Thirteen.**

* * *

**Training Day One.**

* * *

**Alston Cornett, 18 years old;  
District One Male.**

* * *

This was it, the big day.

Or at least for Alston and everyone here, one of many big days to come. The beginning of training. Their sessions with the Gamemakers. An interview in front of all of Panem. And then of course the biggest day of all days.

The bloodbath. The Games. The finale… his homecoming. _Hopefully. _So many big days. A lot to look forward to, a lot to wait for in anticipation, and of course a lot to dread. A lot to… fear.

Alston's confident smirk wasn't false, but as they entered the training room, somewhere underground, buried deep within the heart of the Capitol, his whimsical charm seemed more… difficult to maintain.

Because as much as he was having the time of his life, it could also be the last time he'd ever actually get the chance to live. To be free. To be a teenager. And he didn't mind the fact he'd scuppered it in favour of killing in the Games. It wasn't an ideal life to lead. But he'd chosen it to be free of constraint. To be the person no one really expected him to be.

So to hell with anyone who told him otherwise. He was allowed to be scared. So what? Fear was normal.

Once in the centre of the room, Alston forced himself right in front of the Head Trainer, shouldering aside the large guy from Eleven, beefy and intimidating. Alston barely flinched at the glare burning into the back of his skull.

The tattooed man in front, towering above Alston at six foot and a half, maybe even more, met Alston's intense stare with revulsion in his eyes. Alston didn't care. He'd faced down authority countless times. And there was something about their uptight, I'm-above-you aura that made Alston want to be even more of a nuisance.

Everyone had their own brand of fun. This was his.

"Carry on sir," Alston laughed. "Enthralling speech."

The man coughed, steely eyes set over Alston's shoulder, avoiding eye contact with the Career. "As I was saying, I wouldn't be so quick to judge those that would rather move the weapons to the side and focus on learning how to build shelter, how to camouflage, how to knot a rope or how to tell a poisonous berry from the other. More times than not, it's the arrogant-" His eyes moved back to Alston. Alston didn't lower his gaze. "-tributes, those that believe they don't need these skills, who fall in the most degrading of manners."

He paused, soaking in the atmosphere amongst the tributes. Maybe relishing in the hesitance radiating within the Career pack. Or the fear transpiring on the faces of those that clearly had no idea what they were doing.

Not that Alston blamed them. They hadn't chosen this lifestyle for themselves.

"It would be rather embarrassing if instead of dying in glorious combat, your throat closed up because you ate something you shouldn't have eaten." He winked at Alston. "Wouldn't that be a terrible fate?"

Alston gasped, dramatically. "Utterly terrifying. Here's hoping one doesn't slip into your drink when your back's turned."

Before he could retaliate, Alston took it upon himself to turn his back on the Head Trainer and join Riena's side somewhere near the outer edge of the crowd. She offered him a rather discontented headshake. Obviously she was peeved with his actions. _Aaand what's new?_

Alston simply shrugged and waited for the man to collect himself. Once he had, he tried to pin down the intimidating thing he thought he had going on, glaring at each tribute as his eyes hovered around the crowd.

"Dismissed."

With that one word, training began.

Alston was quick on his feet. Before Riena could stop him, he headed straight for the side of the training hall containing everything pointy, sharp and dangerous.

His District partner caught up with him, shaking her head nervously. "I think it would be wise if we grouped together first. We didn't get the chance yesterday."

Alston's hand moved for a sword handle, eyes aflame with excitement. The idea of tearing into some dummy and proving himself had always been important. Maybe Riena would try with him and then he could show just what he was made of. He'd already beaten her at drinking, at eating quicker, at everything she'd inadvertently done, oblivious to the fact Alston recognised it as a challenge.

Unfortunately for her, Alston didn't really mind whether or not he met up with his allies now or tomorrow or even the next day. "Let them come here," he waved flippantly. He knew the strategic benefits of building bridges, of course. Inside his head was a mind he believed everyone thought was empty and full of air. Even so… "I want to train."

Riena sighed and moved away. "I'll go speak with Diantha and Romina. See what they're thinking. See if Romina even wants to be part of our alliance."

"You do that," Alston said, moving for a dummy. "Tell them from me that I'm glad we're a team. Can't wait to kill with them."

Riena opened her mouth to reply. When Alston was sure she didn't have a response, she turned around and moved away from him, leaving him alone to his own devices. Alston was content for the time being to show what he could do.

No one was watching him just yet, but he was sure eventually some eyes would move for him. And when they did, they'd be scared, they'd be intimidated, they'd be everything someone weaker than him should be in the face of skill and strength.

He didn't want to scare them. He didn't want any of them to die. But there wasn't a way around that anymore. If he made them anxious, they'd slip up, they'd stay away from him, and then when the time came for a fight, they'd realise their inevitable doom before he gave it to them.

It was the way things had to be done. A cycle that would always continue.

Just as his sword cut through the fabric like butter, he heard footsteps behind him and thought better than to pause. Continuing like nothing was happening, Alston felt a presence beside him, someone moving to pick up a sword, clinking two together, before moving for the lifeless piece of material hanging on a hook next to him.

"Guess the girls are already becoming best friends."

Alston didn't need to look at him to tell that he was standing side by side with Uriah. Alston shrugged his shoulders. "That's a good thing, isn't it? Riena has her priorities set. I have mine."

"Beating the shit out of inanimate objects is your idea of a priority?"

Alston didn't like his tone. He did what he wanted when he wanted. If Uriah didn't like it, he could screw off and leave him alone. Alston knew better than to show anger, or anything that might give away how he really felt. Instead, he only laughed and continued to cut away into the dummy, until it was nothing but tatters and cotton left still on the ground.

"You know," Uriah started to say, "how about we make this more fun? They've got a simulation over there. First one to take out ten of those holographic orange things?"

Alston paused. He looked at Uriah, interested, and saw that same familiar glint in his eye that he'd recognised in his own reflection since day one. The two boys started to laugh, moved for the rack to put their swords aside, and ran for another station.

He didn't necessarily like Uriah. He didn't necessarily like Riena either. He wasn't here to like or care or grow attached. He was here to have some fun before things had to get dirty. And when people fell, when the Games really got underway, he'd turn the tides through whatever means necessary.

He wasn't afraid of a little hard work. In fact, he relished the idea of showing everyone what he could do. As long as he stayed on top, Alston had it made.

Maybe Uriah was the key to that. There was something about Uriah – inherently annoying, without trying to be. The other Careers might not like that, but for the good of the group, perhaps they'd bury malice under a false idea of companionship.

And when the cracks started to show, Alston could turn things around with a click of his finger, use Uriah as a catalyst, and shatter the strongest alliance in the Arena when it was time to move on.

_I'm more than a pretty face, _Alston thought, grinning to himself as he prepared for the simulation. _Chaos, drama, all that fun. Whatever it takes, whatever I have to do, I'm going to win._

_I'm going to do it my way._

* * *

**Clytie Torrence, 16 years old;  
District Nine Female.**

* * *

As confidently as she could, Clytie walked up to his side.

So far, training had been one mild disappointment to the next. She hadn't been able to string an arrow in a bow, nearly tearing off half a fingernail in the failed process. The knives she'd tried to hurl at a target skittered across the ground, grinding against her ears as if the blade itself was laughing at her incompetence with its own metallic screeching. And then climbing that blasted wall.

Well, the bruise on her side and the throbbing in her head was enough to tell anyone how that went.

But he, such a large, intimidating presence, towering over the table with his hulking frame staring out at the flowers, made Clytie's heartbeat slowly reach a normal pace. Something about him made her want to introduce herself.

So she was trying.

She coughed lightly, trying to gain his focused attention. "Excuse me?"

He didn't hear her. Repeating herself, she coughed again. "Um- excuse me?" Maybe she wasn't speaking loud enough?

When he did look up, turning to meet her warm gaze, his eyes narrowed cautiously, the delicacy of his grasp on the flower petals morphing into a guarded sort of reproach. "S-Sorry, I didn't mean to- yeah, I'll just go," Clytie laughed nervously and turned to walk away.

A surprisingly soft voice behind stopped her in her tracks. "No. Don't. There's no need to apologise. If anything I'm sorry, I just-" Emigdio Santiago, the District Eleven Male, outside of the Careers probably the biggest threat from an outside perspective, tried to smile at Clytie, his eyes flitting away awkwardly, "-I told myself I wouldn't… I wouldn't speak with anyone. Not today at least."

Clytie smiled and edged closer towards him, much more confident now in her advances. "Advice from your mentor or some kind of inward realization?"

"A bit of both," Emigdio said, turning to face the flowers and berries once more. "I was told to scope out the place on the first day, see which alliances were coming together on the second, and stake my claim on the third. Or go it alone. Whatever my masculine intuition told me."

"Masculine intuition?" Clytie laughed heartily, dropping onto her knees so her eyes were close to the mat on the floor. "I think I have something like that. Feminine intuition, obviously. But I get what you mean."

She could tell he wasn't used to this. Whatever experiences he'd had growing up, whatever his story, something or someone had happened that had made him bottle everything up until he was a stoic mess of a man. But Clytie liked that about him. He wasn't trying too hard. And she didn't want to push him either.

This wasn't a place for how she'd been in District Nine. She could share a friendly laugh with anyone, but in here, the very friends that might be the people cracking the jokes or poking her in the side to wind her up, could potentially be the very person to claim her life.

Clytie wasn't ready to face that, yet. And if she'd ever be, she wasn't so sure. But something about Hale's dreamy idealism earlier at breakfast made her at least want to go out into training with an open mind. Experience new things, new people.

And so she'd found Emigdio, alone amongst the solitary, beautiful plants by his hands and knees.

He coughed, nervously. His large, calloused hands went for a bright green stem, pretty lilac petals sprouting off from the tip like subtle fireworks.

It reminded her of the florist back home. The memory made Clytie smile. And it made her sad.

"Do you know what this is?" He asked, eyes flickering between the book by his foot, and Clytie's attentive, focused stare. "We had flowers in Eleven, all kinds of plants, but these were more of…" His face twisted with grief. "More of… her thing."

Clytie didn't want to pry. But she didn't want to leave him alone in his pain and suffering either. "Who do you mean?"

"My… my daughter…"

_Oh. _Clytie's hand instinctively went for his own, squeezing it, nervously at first, then as comforting as she could, seeing how he didn't pull away. "I know it's not the same and it couldn't compare but… but I miss my sisters too. My parents. My family and friends. And the little place nearer to the Square where I had a job. The little things you know. The sun, or the stars, or the wheat in the fields. I understand how it feels."

"Your sisters are as important as my children. We all have things back home that we miss."

Clytie and Emigdio held each other's gaze for another second. Then his eyes fell back on the book and the flower. He laughed sadly, twirling it in his fingers. "You're not like the others. The guy from Twelve who my District partner allied with, something about him makes you want to punch him in the face. Or the Careers, all proud of who they are and what they're going to do to us. You're different."

"And you're not how I imagined either," Clytie replied, smiling. "I bet you're a great father."

Emigdio beamed at that, his cheeks going red as he embraced the compliment to his character. Clytie just wanted to help. He had a family back home. She had one too. But there was something in that normal mutual understanding that had bonded her to him, or at least shown something to her about who he was that made her want to be with him in the Arena.

The others might see a man who could tear apart a little kid, limb from limb. Or rival the Careers at their own game. But Clytie didn't. She saw something gentler, something calmer, something beautiful like the flowers in his grasp.

"I'd stay away from that one," Clytie said, interrupting her thoughts, tapping the flower petal. "Those tiny little black speckles across the rim mean it's poisonous."

Emigdio's reaction was instantaneous. His gasp as he threw it across the mat made Clytie laugh, brightly and without restraint. He blushed, embarrassed, but as Clytie continued to chuckle, sifting through the plants to assist Emigdio, he opened up more and started to laugh with her.

Neither needed to say it. As time continued to tick away and their first day of training moved on with the hours, Emigdio and Clytie went from flower to flower, berry to berry, knowing that even without words, they'd found a friend.

It wasn't the best place to be with someone like that. And there was something tense and pained in the expression on Emigdio's face, but Clytie didn't mind. Whatever they had to do, they'd face it together, because together was ten times better than being alone.

She had a companion in Emigdio.

As bad as this place was, something good had come from it.

* * *

**Delora Verone, 18 years old;  
District Twelve Female.**

* * *

They had an agreement.

On the outside looking in, District Twelve would not be allies. Not in the official sense. They'd have their own team, their own group, their own support.

But in the Arena, when it mattered, when their paths crossed, when they needed assistance, for the sake of aiding everyone back home, in hopes that one of them would return and give Twelve's citizens food and hope, Gwilym and Delora would be there for one another.

But for now, without an ally, rather than spend her time aimlessly and hopelessly wielding weapons she couldn't handle, Delora took it upon herself to focus on putting together a group. Cohesive, functional, dependable. She didn't want friends. But neither did she want grade A backstabbers watching her every move.

They had to be trustworthy.

She eyed the training room from somewhere near the sidelines. Delora picked out Gwilym sitting side by side with Fira, his new ally, the two of them having a hushed conversation as they threw knives at the targets.

She nodded with a smile on her face and set off for the opposite direction. Nearer to the archery station, Delora found two girls trying to nock the arrows and draw the string back. She stayed silent, observing them.

When the shorter girl started to fidget, her elbow shaking with nerves, the taller, older one smiled and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. They exchanged a few words, the meeker one let the arrow loose, and missed completely.

Even when her eyes betrayed the sadness and disappointment at her failed demonstration, her friend didn't let her dwell for too long. The fact that they were kind to each other. The fact they already seemed close. It was enough to seal the deal.

With a satisfactory nod at her new circumstances, Delora stepped up to them, patiently waited for either to notice her presence, and when the more open of the two spotted her, her face broke out with a large, pleasant smile.

"Sorry to intrude," Delora said, eyeing the bows clutched in their inexperienced hands. Delora had no idea what she would do either in their position, but at least they were trying. It said something about their determination in this place, even with such bleak, miserable odds weighing them down. "I thought maybe I could join you?"

They exchanged a look. Then the taller girl nodded her head, smiled, and stepped to the side to let Delora through.

"I'm Audria," she said, offering Delora a bow to practice with. "We're not the brightest company, but Nevaeh and I try."

"I can see that," Delora smiled. "You two seem close."

Audria blushed. There was something sad in her eyes. Something miserable in regards to both of them. As if Audria was trying too hard. And Nevaeh not enough.

Delora knew the feeling well. She'd already designated herself the leader of whatever group she could pull together – mainly because she wanted to prove herself to the other tributes, but also, on a deeper level, prove herself to herself.

That she actually could be something important. And with friends here, it was almost like a small part of what she had in Twelve was here with her. Her sister and her best friends. At least they were safe. At least they were far away from this hell Delora was forced to endure. But in spirit, she had them by her side.

"So," Delora said, stepping forwards with an arrow ready to let loose, "have you two noticed anything else about anyone here?"

"What do you mean?" Audria asked, observing Delora let the arrow free onto the target.

Her face almost fell when it completely missed and hit the far wall, but Delora was good enough at hiding how she really felt. With a smile, she plucked another from the large bundle ready and available, and prepared her bow for another round.

"The other tributes," Delora said, focused more on her new acquaintances than what she was actually doing. _Bad move, _she thought, when the arrow hit the ground a few metres from her feet. "Friends, foes. Threats, non-threats. I was told it's a good idea. I started from the moment I left Twelve. Best to be prepared, you know?"

Audria and Nevaeh once again exchanged that look. As if they were already connected somehow, and could speak through mere eye contact. Delora tried not to feel jealous about that. She'd barely known them two minutes. Maybe eventually – no, definitely – she'd reach that point with them.

Allies who knew each other well enough to convey how they felt through a mere look were the kind of allies that would get her places in the Arena. And of course, she'd help them. It was all part of the process. The deal struck between new friends, cementing their shaky, hopeless bond.

Because at the end of the day, both these girls had to die for Delora to return home.

"Well I-" Nevaeh started. When Delora looked at her, she blushed and lowered her gaze, nearly dropping her bow on the ground.

"I think we're just winging it," Audria finished for her. "See what happens when it happens. I don't know anyone here well enough. Not even Phris."

"Phris?" Delora said, raising an eyebrow.

"My District partner," Audria shrugged her shoulders. "He's distant. Kinda cold. I don't mean to be rude when he's around but I feel like every second I'm with him, the air just gets… tense. Like if he meets my eyes for a second longer than intended, all the oxygen's going to leave my lungs."

_Dramatic. _But instead of laughing, Delora nodded. She was right about him. There was something about his presence even from the television set that Delora had noticed. She mentally marked him down as a threat and continued on. The more she got to know about these two girls and their capabilities, who they were, how they ticked, the easier it would be further down the road.

Delora had already penned them down as allies. Whether they'd actually agree, she hoped she wouldn't have to face rejection.

Another concept she didn't do well with.

"What about your District partner, Nevaeh?" Delora asked, turning to face their quieter young friend. _I sense she doesn't want to be here. Not really. Or that she's not even here at all, even when she's standing right in front of me. _Delora kept herself quiet as she struggled to put together a coherent sentence. When she caught Audria's kind stare over Delora's shoulder, she smiled and met the girl from Twelve's unintentionally grilling gaze.

"Barnaby is quiet. He's kind, but he's… quiet."

"Like you?"

Nevaeh nodded, her smile faltering. "Yeah." She turned to face the target, raising her bow, readying an arrow, and failing once again. "Yeah. I'm sorry. I guess I'm just… this is all… it's so…." Delora could almost see tears about to build under her eyelashes. "Sorry…"

Audria was by her side quickly. Delora held in a breath as she embraced a girl she'd barely just met. But Delora knew why they shared what they did. Audria was almost as sad as Nevaeh was. Almost as insecure as Delora felt deep down, her greatest motivation for needing to be someone special, fuelling her on.

Only there was something strong about Audria. Stronger than the two of them. She spoke openly, she spoke with a smile, because she was used to shielding away judgement and dealing with her life day by day.

_If only… _No. Delora would not feel envy. She would not let anything get in her way of what she was trying to build, what she had to do, and how she had to win in the Arena.

Burying it further and further inside of her, Delora waited for the two of them to finish, apologized to Nevaeh, and placed a hand on Audria's tense shoulder.

"I get the feeling we'd make great allies," she said, confidently, yet with enough gentleness as to not scare away the two of them. It was something she was going to have to learn, and learn fast. "That's if you want to be?"

Again, the same look between the two of them.

Only this time, Nevaeh smiled, Audria nodded, and both of them voiced the same sentiment, the same reply, out loud.

"Yes."

Her alliance was coming together.

* * *

**And the alliances are slowly starting to fall into place!**

**We begin training. Not much of the Career dynamic yet. But that'll slowly unfold. I'm trying to be fair on the outer-District tributes too and with how much I show of them and the groups they build together.**

**Slowly getting closer and closer to the Games :D**

**Thanks for reading, and of course all the support shown so far!**


	14. Problems

**Chapter Fourteen.**

* * *

**Training Day Two.**

* * *

**Huxley Cross, 14 years old;  
District Three Male.**

* * *

Huxley was finding it very hard to mind his own business.

He'd always been on the outside looking in. At home with his loudmouthed, obnoxious, yet loving sister. His stern, matriarchal parent figure. His co-workers. His classmates. Everywhere and everyone.

And now with the tributes, from District One to District Twelve.

But he didn't mind the noise buzzing around him, like busy bees flying between stations, training, working hard. Because he was learning things. Learning who the tributes were as people – what they thought, how they put their minds into action, what they could and couldn't do. What they might be able to do.

It was interesting. As long as he wasn't the centre of anyone's attention, this whole training business didn't seem so bad. Not whilst he kept his head down and tried to forget what it was they were training for, exactly.

As long as those dark, dreadful thoughts stayed well away from the centre of his mind, Huxley found his peace. He found his own little workplace. He found where he thought he belonged.

_Although…_

He heard Andryn laughing. She was with someone. Huxley didn't know who and he didn't want to barge over and ask. He wasn't like his sister or those curiously ignorant to other people's emotions. She might not like it. And the last thing he wanted to do was upset someone that had only had his best interests at heart.

So he simply listened to her, laughing, cheering herself on when she practiced and accomplished something, and on and on it went. He relished in someone else's excitement whilst he tinkered with certain bits of wires, learned how to make a net with ropes, how to scale the climbing wall without falling and hurting himself.

But the one thing that he couldn't ignore, no matter how hard he tried, was his burning desire to find… someone, whether he wanted to mind his own business or not.

His loneliness had done him wonders so far. Had made his life easier, even when he'd felt his cheeks flaming hot with embarrassment, or sometimes wished things would one day go his way when they never did.

This was different though. As hard as it was to visualize actually speaking to someone, he had to, he had to man-up and take the initiative. The more he embraced the joyous sounds of Andryn living her last days of peace, the more Huxley realised that he needed help in the Arena.

Andryn had offered to be with him. And he'd thought about it. He'd kept on thinking about it. And when he'd landed on a no, rather than take the courage to tell her, he'd simply let her get on with her business and find someone else.

He was scared of letting her down. Scared of dragging her chances through the mud if he burdened her with his presence. It wasn't him trying to push himself down and down. Huxley knew what he could do and what he couldn't do.

What he couldn't do was protect Andryn. He didn't deserve someone like her.

_And she'll always be a better person than me. Because whenever she looks over and offers me that sad, painful look, she doesn't come over. _Not once did Andryn move for Huxley. Because she respected his wishes.

She understood him.

Now he had to find someone else.

As he moved around the training hall, seconds falling into minutes that changed into hours, Huxley kept one ear focused on his surroundings, and one ear on the teachings of the trainers near to him. He enjoyed learning new things. The educational side of school had always been his favourite.

It was sort of like that, only with pointy weapons and the horrible idea of death lingering far away, never quite reaching him, but tapping away at his subconscious, trying to whittle down his sanity piece by piece.

He'd kept it at bay so far. And he continued to do so. Until he heard a soft, polite voice, somewhere to his right. And when his eyes focused on the three of them talking, Huxley immediately put the book down, ignored the plants around his feet, and watched, intrigued.

"Emigdio doesn't bite, I promise," the girl from Nine – Clytie, Huxley believed her name to be – laughed as she smiled down at the small girl from Seven. Petra something. "I might, but only when I'm hungry."

Petra responded with her own rather anxious smile. But still she took a step closer and tried to make herself seem as approachable as possible. It sort of reminded Huxley of himself. Only she was mildly better at it than he was.

"I… I don't mean to be so forward, I just saw you two with the… the…"

"Maces?" Emigdio finished for her.

_Why is he looking at her like that? _Huxley immediately found himself curious about the boy from Eleven. Or man, he should say. He'd always seemed so cold and distant. Yet with Clytie, and now all of a sudden with Petra, there was something affectionate in his eyes.

With every second, Huxley was starting to think that maybe… maybe…

"Seems like we've got someone else interested in us, 'Mig'," Clytie said, nodding her head in Huxley's direction, grinning.

His cheeks immediately went the brightest shade of crimson. He felt like his entire face was half on fire, half already melted off. _Where's the escape plan when I need it… _He looked at the ground nervously, then over his shoulder in the other direction.

Strangely, instead of running, or stuttering over a messy apology, Huxley tried to smile back at the friendly faces watching him. Emigdio once again, maybe for the sake of his eager companion, didn't show those hostile eyes he'd shown for other people.

When even he smiled, and then Petra tried too, Huxley stood up and patted his training uniform down, nervously trying to appear somewhat composed. "H-Hi. Hi. I-I didn't mean to…"

"Clytie Torrence, District Nine." Three steps and she was shaking his hand, affectionately up and down, almost too much for Huxley's liking. "That's Emigdio Santiago. And I believe our mature friend to be Petra Peverett. District Seven?"

When she looked over her shoulder, Petra nodded her head, somewhat cautiously.

_If I were her, I wouldn't totally be sold either. _She'd probably come along hoping for an alliance with two strong, outer-District tributes. And now they were talking to him because he'd stared for too long.

If she was reconsidering, Huxley didn't blame her.

"Are you here for the same reason as me?" Petra asked, softly and politely.

Huxley didn't know whether to nod, say yes, shrug his shoulders meekly, or laugh and say no. But he didn't lie. He didn't do many things, but lying was one-hundred percent something he tried to stay away from.

"Yes. Y-Yes. I mean, if you're here for a-"

"An alliance?" Emigdio said, raising an eyebrow. "All of a sudden we're the popular tributes."

"Maybe it's our dashing looks?" Clytie joked, before blushing.

She hadn't taken a step back yet from Huxley. But he found himself rather liking her presence now that he'd actually spoken something and hadn't choked on his tongue. He nodded at Emigdio and smiled again.

"I didn't mean to step on your toes, Petra. But I… well, there's not a whole lot of a time we have left before things get… well you know…"

"Yeah. I suppose we've got to make the most of our situation," Petra said.

"Exactly," Huxley replied, slowly growing in confidence.

He'd never reach what he had with Andryn. Or ever reach who she was. But as he stepped closer to Emigdio and Petra, side by side with Clytie, he felt like maybe something was coming together, and coming together rather well.

Maybe he could hope. Maybe hope wasn't impossible anymore.

"I guess we should leave it with just us, though. It's probably best our numbers don't grow anymore. Wouldn't want to make ourselves out to be a threat. Not that we're exactly… well… " Emigdio said, smiling warmly.

Huxley looked between them. Three minutes, maybe four, and he'd already been welcomed into a group. They were trusting. Perhaps too trusting. But he needed that. He didn't think he'd cope well with hostility. He didn't think he'd be able to deal with the idea of having to look over his shoulder every two minutes, in case of a knife coming for his back.

And with Emigdio and Clytie, even little Petra, he didn't feel like he had to worry anymore about being the ultimate burden.

Maybe he didn't need to be a fighter. Or the muscle. Or even someone that could take a life for the sake of his new friends.

Maybe all Huxley had to be was who he was, right now, awkwardly shy, yet still enjoying the next few hours laughing merrily with three people he'd just met, but three people who felt like friends.

He was a thinker. And yes he was quiet, yes he didn't believe so much in winning and being able to be the next Victor, but that was alright.

He had a place now.

Although it was in an alliance headed straight for the Hunger Games, it didn't seem so bad.

* * *

**Theon Devalera, 17 years old;  
District Four Male.**

* * *

"Hello, ladies."

Riena, Diantha and his District partner Romina, looked up in unison, as Theon appeared from behind the rack of throwing knives.

It amused him silently how they each reacted differently; each of his female allies regarding him with something different in their eyes.

Diantha winked, smirking. Romina immediately broke eye contact, somewhat disgusted. And then Riena, somewhere between the two, trying to maintain peace, met his gaze and attempted a rather shaky smile.

_Eh. _None of them had said piss off. He took that as a step in the right direction.

"What can we do for you, Theon?" Riena asked, politely, yet nervously.

"Oh nothing," Theon traced his finger along the handle of a knife, smiling to himself. "Thought it was about time I got to know my fellow teammates. Uriah and Alston are total butt-buddies, so I thought why not try the girls?"

"Maybe you could train by yourself?" Riena suggested.

_Way to make me feel good…_

"Is she suddenly in charge?" Theon asked, turning his attention to Diantha. Something about her, the way he could so easily sense she was trying to be someone she wasn't, but with a twinkle in her eye either way, made Theon believe he'd have a chance with her, rather than anyone else.

A chance of at least making a… friend. Or acquaintance. Or something. _Friend probably isn't the right word. _Theon didn't know how to be close with people. He ended up ruining everything, even when he didn't intentionally mean to.

"Oh, Riena?" Diantha shook her head. "She's clearly on some kind of power trip-"

"I am not!" Riena interrupted, frowning.

"Well, maybe not a power trip. She's a decent girl. But I think she believes she's taken the more responsible role. I think we work better when we each have something to offer. As equals."

"I never said that was a bad idea," Riena whispered.

Romina never met Theon's eye. But she did turn to face Diantha. "In her defence, she never said she was in charge. The idea of us all being equal sounds… great. Refreshing."

"Refreshing?" Theon almost snorted.

"Yes."

His District partner so clearly didn't like him, it was almost cute. Almost. It didn't quite leave him feeling good about himself. Somewhat the opposite. An empty sort of void in his chest where Theon filled it up by doing the complete reverse of what it was he should have been doing. In this sense, it was pissing off a girl that actually seemed quite lovely. _Not that I could ever… tell her that…_

"Well if we all have equal input, I might suggest you girls get up and move. Thought someone of your talents would have a keen eye and ear for spotting out when someone's eavesdropping," Theon paused; silence rippling through their little get together. "Honestly." He tutted and shook his head. "It's so obvious."

With that out and open in the air, the little kid from Six, short and weak looking, stepped out from behind a target close to them, stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

"Worth a shot, eh?"

Theon laughed. The girls clearly didn't look impressed. Embarrassed more like. But Theon didn't feel threatened by someone of his calibre. He actually respected him for having the balls to do something no one else clearly wanted to do.

Spying on the greatest threat in the Games was a good move. He might have learnt something no one else here would be able to find out.

"Run along now kid," Theon said, waving him away with a smile. "Did you not see that coming?"

Romina frowned and started to twirl a knife between her fingers, anything to distract herself from Theon's intense gaze. Diantha and Riena exchanged a look. The girl from Two played it off, shrugging her shoulders with a cheerful, casual laugh.

"Whatever, he's… well he's not exactly going to be much of a hassle in the Arena, is he?"

"Not that anyone's better than us. Or me. But still, it probably isn't the best idea to count out even the smallest kid. He could easily become a right pain in our combined asses." Theon said.

He was beginning to feel like even Diantha's mask was starting to fall to pieces with him nearby. He tried to smile and persevere; fighting through it. Unity in the Pack was important. Even if he wasn't doing a great job at getting them to like him. Still… it wasn't going so brilliantly.

"Any other great advice, O' Wise One?" Diantha joked.

Theon nodded and turned to face the large expanse of the training hall, from the survival stations to the weaponry stations. All of the tributes collected in one place. And yet to the Careers, they were supposed to be nothing but future numbers on a victim poll.

Theon didn't necessarily think of them that way. But it was easier to detach himself from who they were, what they had done previously before this had happened, and what they might have achieved if their lives hadn't been ruined.

It almost reminded him of himself. Only, he'd never known his place. And now here he was, trying to find out. Fitting together the pieces of who he was and failing each and every time. Still, his eyes gazed around the room intently, until he found who he was looking for, and turned back to face his allies with a roll of his eyes.

"Again, rather than mindlessly chatting away like _girls, _you do realise that he," Theon jabbed a finger in the tribute's direction, "could be a problem somewhere down the line."

"I thought you said everyone was a problem?" Riena stared at Theon, holding her own, standing on her two feet rather proudly for someone he thought had no backbone.

He sighed and lowered his finger. "Yes, but no. Not like him. He volunteered, did he not? And we're supposed to act like that didn't happen. Outer District volunteers are rare. Shouldn't we look into it?"

"Let him do what he likes," Diantha replied.

She seemed far too dismissive for Theon's liking. He wasn't sure when he'd started taking this so seriously – maybe it was the fact he really didn't want to die, that was probably it. And some blasted volunteer from Eight of all places could potentially seriously jeopardize his chances if he didn't find out exactly why he'd offered himself up in the first place.

"Well, fine. When it comes to fuck you over somewhere in the Games, don't say I didn't warn you," Theon tried to lighten up his tone with another laugh, only it sounded more tired and strained than anything else. "I'm only looking out for you girls. Wouldn't want anything bad to happen to my friends, would I?"

"I don't know," Romina said, facing him. "Would you?"

He nearly offered her the finger.

For such a meek girl back on the train and Chariot, and for someone who seemed to have so much integrity and respect for other people, there was a serious bee in her bonnet when it came to being around Theon. Sure, it wasn't like he was the nicest guy in the nearby vicinity. But he wasn't a total asshole.

He hadn't slept with her, chucked her, and moved onto her best friend at least. Not that he could anyway. He was here. Her best friend wasn't.

_Whatever. _He shrugged and refrained from saying anything else to further wind her up.

Diantha linked her arm unexpectedly with his and turned them around, so their backs were facing Riena and Romina, who quickly fell back to training, quiet and focused.

"Look, Theon. Uriah's an asshole. But a nice asshole. He seems a bit too friendly if you get on his good side. And then there's Riena, she means well, she's probably the most mature out of any of us, but she's got a temper when her buttons are pushed in all the wrong places," Diantha had suddenly turned so serious, her voice barely above a whisper. "Romina is quiet, yet her silent sort of strength could prove troublesome down the line. And then Alston, well he just seems like a total tool. But there's something there. Something deadly."

Theon chuckled, anxiously. "Why are you saying all this?"

"Because I know who they are, I know who I am, but I don't know who you are," Diantha frowned. "I hate surprises."

"I'll try not to throw one at you, then."

She removed her arm from his and smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I don't see any of us becoming friends. But I want to make this work, until it can't any longer. As long as we all play our part, we have a chance of surviving long enough in that Arena."

"I'll do my bit," Theon said. "I promise."

Diantha nodded, turned away, and sat back down, satisfied.

When Theon started to move to another station, by himself, listening to the other tributes laughing, talking, and getting along, he suddenly felt a stab of loneliness, of confusion, of something dark and terrifying in his stomach.

They weren't friends. Diantha had said it. Theon had known it. Romina made it very clear with every look she sent him.

That didn't make it any easier. All his life he'd searched for something. Someone. And no matter how hard he was prepared to try now, it wouldn't be enough.

If he was to win, they would have to die.

The Theon they all saw wouldn't bat an eyelash at the thought. But the Theon on the inside… he was completely and utterly terrified.

He didn't care for them. But he didn't want to see them dead either. He didn't want to hurt them.

_I am so fucked._

* * *

**Barnaby Miller, 13 years old;  
District Five Male.**

* * *

_There they are._

_There… he is._

Barnaby swallowed nervously. He wasn't enjoying himself, not one bit.

Coming into the Capitol, a city so unimaginably luxurious, so different from anything he'd ever seen, he'd wanted to at least find some way of forgetting the reason he and everyone else were here. He'd wanted to push aside the idea of dying for something easier to handle.

Something that didn't make a thirteen year old want to wet himself.

But now that he was with everyone, he couldn't help but keep staring in their direction. In his direction. Arick Greige. The District Eight volunteer. From his sister's information, some kind of rebel, a potential leader for the war that would soon come.

Barnaby played with his fingers, fidgeting, doing everything but something productive. _War. Do I want war?_ Rebels versus the Capitol? Destruction. Death. He was about to go to a place where he knew the outcome. But for everyone else, living hard lives, awful lives, but people who actually had a life…

Did he want to be with someone that was supposed to be here for the sole reason of creating conflict? He'd led such a peaceful, albeit strained, life so far. All of this thinking was too much for Barnaby to handle. All this autonomy over his own life.

It was so much easier when he had school, work, and that was it. Repetitive, but familiar.

And now he was here.

_But I'm not supposed to let him win, anyway… _He was a thirteen year old kid. Weedy. Scrawny. Anything but a fighter. Yet his sister thought he was capable of taking down someone like Arick, behind his back, cowardly yet effectively ruining the chances of the Capitol potentially being thwarted for their crimes.

_I can't believe I'm seriously considering this. Come on Barnaby, look away, stop picking your fingernails and chewing your thumb like a little baby, and do something… find someone else…_

And yet… _no… stop walking… _He was heading straight for them. District Eight. The loud kid from Seven. Little Barnaby, small, weak Barnaby, in the background Barnaby, was moving for the very people he knew would give him the greatest chance of surviving in the Arena. And yet…

They looked up immediately. He was rather light on his feet, but everything seemed to echo in this room. Even his ragged, panicked breathing.

"Hey there!" The kid from Seven said, stepping in front of Arick and his District partner before they could get a word out. Or Barnaby. "Aren't you a little small for the spears?"

He suddenly realised exactly where they were. And although he felt the obvious signs of annoyance beginning to creep up towards this boy in front of him, Barnaby gulped fearfully. The spears were practically taller than him.

_But you're not here for the spears. You're here for a very different, very human-shaped weapon. One that's more capable than any spear you'll find. Get it together Barnaby!_

"I-" He wasn't sure if he should come straight out with it, or play it cool. He wasn't even sure how playing it cool would go, so he opted for the former. "I'm not here for the spears. I'm not here to throw anything."

"Then what are you here for?" The prickly girl from Eight spoke up before their mascot could.

_Mascot? _He wasn't sure when he'd suddenly become so bitter.

"I-" Barnaby tugged at his collar, feeling the heat suddenly affecting him intensely. Zeara's eyes were burrowing into his own, making this even harder. And Travis was smiling a smile that made him want to run away.

_But Arick…_

He chose to focus on him. Quiet, yet curiously watching the smaller boy in front of their trio.

"I'm here to ask you something."

"Oh?" Arick said, smiling.

"Yeah… I… do you have any more room for… for another…"

"Aw, he wants to be with us!" Travis said, laughing. "How old are you by the way?"

_What does it matter? _"Thirteen."

"Do we want a thirteen year old with us?" Travis asked, turning to face his allies. "I mean no offence. I'm sure you know stuff. But like… well this isn't… this isn't a game." He laughed. "I mean yeah it's a game. It's called the Hunger Games. But it's not _that _kind of game."

"And you're better at _this _kind of game than me, are you? Have you ever played it before?" Barnaby said, bitterly.

Travis paused. Then frowned. Barnaby did the same. Again, he was starting to feel irritation corrupt him from the inside. Maybe the fear was getting to him. Maybe the fact that he was a fish out of water, flopping and floundering on the sand, so out of his depth, made him want to shrink into a little ball and cry.

But rather than cry, he was reacting in other ways. This was one of those ways.

"I'm sold," Zeara said, crossing her arms round her chest with a satisfied smirk. "Anyone who can knock you down a peg or two is A-Okay in my books."

Travis looked on the verge of sulking. When Zeara placed a hand on his shoulder, his cheeks started to brighten with colour once more. But rather than speak, they all seemed to move their eyes in Arick's direction.

He hadn't really done anything.

"I'm sorry. I understand you have an alliance already. And I know from an outside point of view I'm nothing special… I mean even from an inside point of view, my own brain in fact, my own… father… well yeah, I'm not the most…"

"You can join us," Arick said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Huh?" Barnaby and Travis said, at exactly the same time.

They exchanged a look. Barnaby wanted to smile. But he wasn't quite there yet. He wasn't sure he'd ever be there again. Because Arick had just said yes. He had just said he could get into their little alliance.

But that meant that he was on the way to what his sister had advised. And the thought made Barnaby want to cry, over and over. This wasn't how anything was supposed to go.

_It's not fair on any of them… but… but I miss my family… my house… my…_

"Are you okay?" Arick said, looking down at Barnaby.

He realised he was starting to tear up. He tried to smile shakily, but when that failed, he shook his head.

"Happy tears?" Travis half joked.

"No…" Barnaby mumbled, blinking his eyes. If he cried, Arick might change his mind. And as terrified as he was of his future with these three, the idea of going it alone was ten times worse. "This whole thing. I'm grateful, but I shouldn't have to… none of us should have to… it's not-"

He couldn't finish. He didn't know how to put it into words. From an average life to this, with spears taller than he stood barely a metre away from him, spears that could very well kill him in a few days time.

Any other kid he knew at school his age would have fallen apart by now. He was close to it. If it weren't for Arick and Zeara pulling him forwards, comforting him, he was sure he'd already be there, on the ground, sobbing.

"It's alright," Travis said, behind them, awkwardly. "It's um… yeah it's alright. Apart from the Games, there's nothing to be afraid of."

"Not helping," Zeara snapped.

Barnaby shook his head, wiping his eyes. "No, I need to embrace it. Travis is right. If I don't control myself, then I won't… I won't be a good ally for you."

"I'd rather an ally who understood how to react like someone, anyone should, than an ally who thought this was all going to be okay," Arick spoke, softly. "If it means anything, the fact you're so open, makes me even more convinced that I want you in our team."

Barnaby smiled.

And when they moved away, together, with no one able to see his face, the smile fell and the tears once again nearly threatened to fall free.

Arick was so kind. Too kind. A volunteer. A potential killer. Someone who was supposed to be the leader of a war.

He didn't fit that. He was just a teenager. He was supposed to be something Barnaby didn't see in who he was.

_And my sister wants me to kill him… to use him… _

Barnaby couldn't.

But even with the four of them getting along, he knew that if he wanted to see his sister, his parents, and anyone he'd ever loved again, he would have to.

This was the only way.

* * *

**This chapter wasn't going to be out so soon. I did plan on slowing things down because the review count has dropped quite a bit so I wanted to give people time to actually catch up, but yeah I'm too into this story to be able to do that ;/**

**Hope that's not a problem, I know it's sometimes difficult when the chapters come out too fast!**


	15. New World

**Chapter Fifteen.**

* * *

**Training Day Three.**

* * *

**Amaya Devlin, 16 years old;  
District Six Female.**

* * *

Amaya was finally getting the hang of fashioning a net from knots of rope, _finally, _when a hand slipped into hers, eager fingers intertwined with her own, and up she went from the ground.

Her once focused, now mildly agitated frown, met the fun-loving, strangely endearing smile of Andryn Vitalli.

"You'll find your feet at the end of your legs, feel free to use them," Andryn said, waggling her eyebrows.

For a brief moment, Amaya wondered what on earth had compelled her to accept this girl's offer of an alliance yesterday.

They were polar opposites. Internally, not externally. On the outside of Amaya, Andryn would see a tentative smile, followed by a forced laugh, a shrug of the shoulders, and an indecisiveness to best the most distracted over-thinker.

But bottled up inside, Amaya's frustration and fear was slowly tapping away at her shell. She was afraid of the future; what would happen when push came to shove and she had no way of controlling it anymore. The Games had a habit of breaking everyone. No matter how hard their fight.

"Use them for what?"

Andryn smirked. "I don't know – walking, dancing, jumping, kicking? Take your pick."

She started to pull Amaya away from the rope, but she stood her ground and shook her head, frowning.

"Kicking a certain somebody sure sounds good right about now," Amaya replied.

Whether she meant it to sound harsh, she wasn't sure. It came out differently than how it felt in her head.

Andryn however, the very same Andryn that Amaya had met yesterday, either didn't realise what she'd just said out loud, or let it fly over her head, unscathed and totally invincible to the jabs sent her way. Maybe that was the exact reason Amaya was by her side. Six had snuffed out Amaya's ability to smile without feeling the muscles in her jaw twitch and ache.

Andryn's cheer wasn't forced, it wasn't fake. Even in this entirely new, awful world, she still found something to smile about.

"You know what else sounds good? Getting out of this dump and living life free and fabulous, away from everything and everyone I'd rather see the back of," Andryn said, tugging harder on Amaya's hand, "but we can't get everything we want now, can we?"

"I suppose not," Amaya grumbled, conceding as she started to walk towards the dummies.

_They aren't going to spring up and kill you. They're cotton. Tinged with red for effect but that's all it is: effect. Death by inanimate object isn't on today's to-do list. _Amaya almost smirked. But maybe a dummy wouldn't kill her, it didn't change anything. It wouldn't stop one of these actual living teenagers from being the one to do so instead.

Andryn continued to be persistent. "So march your backside over here and let's get to training. We've got a very real death match with very real human beings to fight for. With a very, very slim shot at actually surviving, but that doesn't mean we can't hope!"

They reached the station, a rack of swords and maces and all things deadly to their left. Amaya looked over them with a curl of the lip. Scared and disgusted all wrapped up into one, a reluctant bow tying everything together.

"And they say the truth is easy."

Andryn picked up a sword and waved it in front of her. "Not easy. But why kid ourselves?"

"Because I don't want to die, not soon anyway."

Andryn's smile slipped for a moment. "Yeah. Me neither." And then it came back. Andryn and her positivity: hand-in-hand, as thick as thieves until the end of her days.

She wished, watching Andryn slice at dummies, having no idea what she was doing but powering through her hesitance all the same, that she could turn back time and redo things. Maybe, even with her father dead, make herself believe that it wasn't all rainclouds and a bleak, bleak grey hanging over the world for the rest of her life.

But even with a friend like Andryn by her side, Amaya knew she was too far past that point any longer. She didn't like change. Going from one girl to another had sucked out everything in her life and left her in this in-between state.

The Games were the worst thing to happen to her so far. But she didn't have a lot to lose. And that's what made her want to cry even more. Because there was no one to miss her. There was no one who would remember Amaya for who she had once been, not what she'd become.

_My family will just move on. And so the cycle continues. Another forgotten face, fallen to the corruption of Panem._

Before she could free herself from her thoughts and get to training, Amaya and Andryn both were distracted by the sound of footsteps. They came closer for the two of them. Closer and closer until a tall, rather impressive looking girl stood before them.

Amaya immediately tensed. The smile slipped onto her face, strained yet necessary, but her fingers clenched into fists instinctively, fists she hid behind her back as Andryn threw herself forwards and extended an arm.

_This is a game, everyone for themselves. This newcomer could be the girl who slips a knife into my ribs. _Even with her mind focused on so much else, Amaya still knew how to be vigilant.

Andryn didn't understand the notion of caution, however.

The girl introduced herself as Delora Verone and surveyed the two of them, eyes moving over Amaya then Andryn. She smiled and a sweetness poured forth to rival Andryn's, if that was possible.

"This is rather… to the point. But I guess we have to be here. Throw our cards on the table, hold our hands up, and be honest with ourselves," Delora said, grinning. "I won't ramble on and take up more of your important time. But well… me and my friends, Audria and Nevaeh." She took a moment to gesture behind her with a sweep of the hand, somewhere over her shoulder, near to another station.

The two girls in question waved with smiles painted clear on their faces.

Delora turned back to face them and continued to speak. Andryn was hooked on her every word. Amaya fought hard against her desire to reject her instantly and walk away, before the offer had left her lips.

"Well, me and my friends are looking to put together something a bit… larger. A bit more substantial. A good group of girls who have each other's backs, where we can look after one another like family, and be there even through the worst of times."

_As. If. _Amaya wasn't the type to snort. But if she was, she had half a mind to do so right in Delora's face. There was a truth to her words, but there was something else, hidden at the back, caked in her tone, locked away and inaccessible to the oblivious, naïve fool.

And again, unfortunately, her friend was the type to throw herself into things without thinking. She wanted friends and close relationships. In here with death and destruction in their future, Andryn wanted nothing more than to focus on being able to maintain normalcy.

Amaya understood that. But there was a time and a place. The Hunger Games did not come under that.

"I'm in!" Andryn half-shouted, beaming brightly. "I mean, if you'll have us. Well, you did just basically offer. But I should have waited for you to finish."

Delora again smiled that smile. The smile that made Amaya's face twitch.

"Of course. You and Amaya. The more the merrier. We've got to look out for one another. Otherwise, who will?"

They were in a bigger alliance before they'd really weighed out the pros and cons. But even when the introductions were made, Audria and Nevaeh greeting them like true friends, Amaya didn't walk away.

Because she couldn't.

For too long now, she'd pretended. She'd been the new her, clinging to the old her, but never being able to ever reach who that person really was.

Maybe, on some stupid, naïve level, this was where she could become that girl once more.

_If I have to die to laugh again, truly laugh… _Amaya became a part of her new alliance, holding back restraint, and throwing herself into the mix… _then I will. _

She owed it to who she had once been. She had to try.

* * *

**Romina Charette, 17 years old;  
District Four Female.**

* * *

After today, Romina wouldn't have another opportunity at training.

Not before the Games. Not before practicing killing became the real thing.

And yet, instead of moving for the weapons like the rest of her allies, Romina found a comfortable place somewhere to the right hand side of the hall. The noises coming to and fro in the air from all sorts of people and activity left her with no chance at peace, but by herself, it was almost like she could imagine she was sat on the beach again, toes in the sand, listening to the waves roll against the shoreline.

By herself, Romina appreciated a lot more about this world she was a part of.

As she started to mix together shades of paint, greens and greys and blacks, she heard two loud sets of footsteps marching past her. Their voices rose over the sounds of everyone else, until she was left with them shouting, rather than talking, with one another.

Out the corner of her eye, Romina could see Alston practically rearing to throw a fist at Uriah's face.

"If you don't stop pissing me off, I swear I'm going to shove my arm so far up your ass you'll become my weapon of choice in the Arena." He tried to keep his calm. Something about his _friend's _behaviour was getting on his nerves.

Something about everyone's behaviour in this alliance was getting on Romina's.

"Well Alston, what you get up to in your spare time…" Uriah smirked.

"…Is none of your business. And believe me. I don't swing that way."

They were slowly reaching the other side, out of ear-shot. "In what way? The input of arms into certain areas, or my way?" And yet Uriah's voice was still clear, still obnoxious, still ringing above everyone else.

"Both," Alston stated, calmly.

"Shame."

And then Romina was left to herself.

She didn't dislike her allies. She didn't even dislike Theon, not… not really. Most of her life, most of this new life, she preferred to keep to herself and let bygones be bygones. She didn't know these people. Not well enough. And she was in no position to judge them for their Career-like actions when she was pretty much the same person.

She had basically, in a way, signed up for this.

But when she'd usually keep her voice down, there came that spark, somewhere deep within, that seemed to overwhelm her entire being whenever Theon slinked out of the shadows, menacing and creepy all wrapped into one.

She didn't like boys like that. Boys who looked at girls like they were nothing more than another trophy on their bedroom shelf. She was a peaceful girl. It was why she was sitting here, swirling her fingers in paint, and not slicing apart dummies even though she'd done so before, rarely, but once or twice back in Four.

This was all her fault, and she wasn't above them, in no way shape or form was she in any position to look down on her allies, but _Theon. _

Theon pushed all her buttons. It was becoming harder and harder to contain herself.

"It's not all bad, you know?"

A perky voice, laced with cheerfulness, interrupted Romina's thoughts, leaving her a blinking fool, turning her head to meet the eyes of a stranger.

"Huh?"

Those kind eyes soon widened, round and frightened. "Oh… oh sorry you're… you're. Hey, no harm no foul. I didn't know you were- well you."

"Me?" Romina asked, puzzled.

She was talking to the girl from Three. The sprightly one who seemed to be in someone's company at all times. Well, this was a bit different now, since she was currently without a friend. An hour ago Romina had been sat with Diantha and Riena, discussing the new alliance that had come together. The large one.

Andryn was a part of that.

And yet she was now speaking with Romina.

"You know? A Career. A modern day killer for the united front of our-country-is-shit-and-forces-kids-to-kill-each-other. I didn't mean to bother you," Andryn slowly started to smile again, moving closer to her.

Strangely enough, or maybe it wasn't strange, maybe it was exactly where she needed to be and what she needed to be doing right now, Romina didn't want Andryn leaving her alone.

"No. No it's nice to talk to someone. Someone that isn't…"

"Isn't enjoying themselves?"

"It's not that. I think it's nice to find something to laugh about in here of all places," Romina frowned. "Sorry, I sound like such a hypocrite. Here's me, a girl who turned down a volunteer and practically threw herself into the arms of the Gamemakers, and I'm talking to a girl who had no say in the matter."

"Maybe that's what I like about you." Andryn sat down, crossing her legs and staring out at the paint pots, a mismatch of dark colours.

Something brightened in her eyes. As if the paint resonated with her in some way; something back home, maybe?

"What do you mean?"

Andryn smiled. "Well you let some idiot survive, some blonde bimbo no doubt who didn't know left from right but could swing a sword from the age of three. You stopped her from making the biggest mistake of her life."

Romina thought about that girl. She didn't know her. She had no clue who she'd saved, who she'd stopped from dying, the family and friends that now had a living, breathing girl thanks to Romina's actions.

She hadn't tried to be a hero. She'd simply been there, like everyone else, and by standing there, hearing the girl's name ring out, Romina had… seen the opportunity. She'd taken it. It didn't make her feel any better.

"And in turn, I made the biggest mistake of _my _life."

Infectiously optimistic, Andryn didn't seem to waver in her positivity. "Well, there's that. But you're here and she's safe. Even if she's pissed at you." She bumped shoulders with Romina, earning a light laugh from the sad girl from Four.

"If I win, I'm so getting beaten up."

_If. If I win…_

"When you win," Andryn interrupted. "We've all got to be a bit more confident. You have to think about it in terms of _when _you win."

"But my when means your never."

Romina was a Career. She was supposed to see these people dead. Not only see them. But do it. Andryn could… Andryn could be the girl Romina ended up killing.

_But I'm not… I'm not that girl. I'll never be that girl._

"So? For me it's when. For you it's when. If we all think of it being when then we all have something to hope for."

There was a pause. Romina tried to process that but her mind was a jumble. Uriah had Alston. Alston had Uriah. Riena was their quiet leader, not announced, but they all understood her presence and position. And then there was Diantha, playing her own game. Theon, leering on the sidelines.

_Where do I fit in?_

"Do you mind me asking why you came over?"

Andryn shrugged her shoulders. "You looked glum." Then she winked.

"My back was to you."

"Your back looked glum."

The two girls laughed.

"I'll tell it to smile."

Andryn reminded her of her best friend, back home. Where when it wasn't just Romina, she'd have someone to sit on the beach with, laugh and soak up the sun, side by side. Andryn was that sort of person.

She started to speak again. "And well… well my… my friends. My alliance. We're not exactly hiding the fact we don't have a limit on size. We could use a capable kickass girl." Andryn poked Romina in the arm.

Romina didn't know what to say. As much as she liked Andryn, as much as she felt like with her, with the idea of what she was offering, there was a place…

_No._

She was in the Hunger Games. This kind of feeling wouldn't help her win. This kind of feeling could get her killed.

"I don't-" Romina paused.

"Yeah. You have an alliance. The most kickass around. But maybe if you…"

_I want to, but… _"I can't. I'm sorry, I just- I can't."

"I understand." Andryn stood up to go, still smiling, yet there was something sadder in those bright eyes. Romina hated herself for leaving her like that; a kick to a girl who only wanted the sun, before the night came.

"Thank you, though. I think I needed this. It gets hard sometimes. Even if I did save some girl's life, I still condemned myself to something way above me, something I was stupid for believing I had a chance in…" Romina said.

When the girl from Three started to walk away, she stopped for a moment, looked back over her shoulder, and said one last thing: "Hey, remember. It's when, not if. When is all we have in here."

_When._

_When I win…_

Was that even possible? Did Romina have a chance?

If she did, she was in for one hell of a fight.

* * *

**Hale Cheshire, 16 years old;  
District Nine Male.**

* * *

"Thought I'd find you with your nose buried in a book."

Hale looked up at the sound of a voice. It wasn't just any voice. He met the sparkling, mischievous eyes of Cade Grayson, the little kid from Six with a personality too big for his shoes.

His eyes fell back on the words. There was so much in here. Most of it was dark and foreboding, but a lot of it was helpful. Really, really helpful. All Hale wanted to do was be someone to rely on. There seemed to be a lot of that going on – people talking, laughing, helping one another.

Clytie talked a lot about her own makeshift family. Hale wanted one for himself. Without his sister he felt a little lost, drifting about, trying to gain a grasp of everything that had become his world.

For now, his world was these books, and Cade, the talkative, friendly Cade.

"Not just any book," Hale grinned, dreamy eyes twinkling. "This one tells me all about some of the past Games. Don't you think it's a good idea to learn more about the history, what happened, how certain tributes won and what did or didn't work?" His eyes were brimming with excitement. Out there in the open, dangerous world, Hale had no hope. Not much of a chance. He knew it, but he didn't let it get him down.

Between these book covers however, were pages teeming with information. They were his power. They gave him his own sort of chance, weaker than most, but still a chance he had to cling onto.

Cade seemed less interested, but he was polite enough to smile and nod his head. "Yeah, that sounds great. I'm doing my own learning, though. A bit more hands-on. Can't say I'm very book-y myself."

His eyes moved back over to the Careers. Hale had seen him spending a lot of time, hovering like a fly on the wall, observing.

Maybe that was Cade's power.

"We're all special in our own way," Hale said, smiling.

"You're special, that's for sure," Cade rolled his eyes, chuckling, falling down and crossing his knees, right by Hale's side on the floor.

There was one thing Hale wanted to ask. More than anything. A question that felt like it was going to burst out at any one moment. But he was worried. Hale didn't want to ruin anything. He didn't want to come across too pushy, or too forceful, or too much like someone he wasn't.

There wasn't a lot to see in this underground facility. Not much colour, unless the red cotton pouring from dummies was enough. For Hale it wasn't. He had to find something else to focus his attention on, however limited his focus ended up becoming.

"So did you… did you decide on an… an answer…?" Hale stuttered, blushing.

Cade met Hale's awkward expression and raised an eyebrow. "I thought it was obvious?"

"Oh, is it? Was it?"

"Yes, you idiot." Cade poked Hale in the shoulder, laughing.

_Oh… Oh!_

"Yes?"

He'd asked him yesterday, when everyone seemed to be getting along, and there was Hale, on the edge, head in a book, soaking in all this knowledge, but with no one to share it with. Well… well apparently it was a yes! Maybe now he did have a friend in here.

"If you don't smile me to death, sure. We can be pals."

"Pals!" Hale grinned.

"Well..." Cade shifted backwards an inch, kicking aside a book accidentally. "Let's call ourselves allies. Pals is a bit… well, a bit _you_."

A bit Hale? He had no idea what that meant. Still, a yes was a yes. Hale was in no position to ask questions that might scare little Cade off. Little, but loud Cade. The Cade that seemed to be more of the doer, whilst Hale was the thinker. Thinker in terms of being the reader.

"Oh right. Sure. Allies!"

Cade shuffled closer to Hale, pulling the book from his hands and throwing it over his shoulders without care. Hale tried not to call out to it.

"Yes, allies, which means I'm here to give you some help, and you're here to help me back." He leaned in closer. "We should talk about what I've picked up on. Some of the Careers aren't having the best-"

Before he could finish, another little tribute, maybe even shorter than Cade, sat down to Hale's right, solitary, yet as if she wasn't aware they were next to her. She picked up a book, flicked open the pages, and started to read.

Hale looked at Cade, Cade looked at Hale, and the two blinked in unison

"Should we talk to her?" Hale said.

Unlike Hale, Cade tried to go for something a bit more subtle. Yet his whispers still carried through the air. Everything seemed to echo.

"Hale, she's not deaf and you're not very quiet."

Hale studied Petra's face, buried within the pages of a book he'd read from cover to cover earlier today. He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe she's hard of hearing?"

Cade didn't know what to say to that. The little girl however did.

"Maybe… maybe her and she has a name…" Her voice came off weaker than her words must have intended it to be. Still, her ears went pink and she averted eye contact, shyly staring back at her feet.

Hale's own face went bright red.

"Oh. Sorry."

"What Hale said," Cade mumbled.

Petra's cautious eyes flickered back up from the ground and hovered over the two of them. She attempted a smile, the kind of smile that wasn't really much of a smile, but it was enough for Hale to emulate and throw back at her.

"N-no… no, I shouldn't have said that," she said, quietly. "Sorry. I'm Petra."

With an introduction made, Cade was back in his comfort zone. He inched closer, shuffling forwards, and smiled a real, proper smile.

"This here's Hale the book-geek," he gestured to Hale on his right, "and my name's Cade. I'm the cute one."

Petra giggled. "Isn't he older than you?" She pointed back at Hale, who was watching the two of them, silent, yet somewhat hypnotized. He always liked listening to people talk.

At Petra's question, Cade flinched and fell backwards, frowning.

"Makes him taller, so what?"

Hale knew one thing about Cade. Underneath all of this, he was still the little kid to match his height and stature. A little kid who tried to be a big kid.

"Nothing," Petra stammered, growing pink again. "Nothing at all. Sorry. Sorry I keep saying sorry… Yeah… s-sorry…"

Where there had once been an insulted Cade, now a switch came about, and he laughed out loud. "You like saying that don't you?"

"I guess I do."

Hale decided if he didn't speak up, they might forget him. Maybe they already had. He found his tongue and smiled, catching Petra's eye and shuffling on his knees to breach the gap between them.

"I'm the book-y older guy, Cade's the friendly one, and you're the sorry one. We make the perfect team!"

They could make a trio. An excellent trio. So what if he was the sixteen year old and they were two twelve year olds? He wasn't going to judge them based on age. Cade certainly knew what he was doing more than Hale did and there was something strong about Petra.

Something he admired.

And yet…

"Er, Hale?-" Cade looked away, awkwardly.

Petra couldn't meet Hale's eyes either. "...Oh… oh I already have a…" Her voice faded out.

"I did tell him that," Cade said.

Hale blinked. "Did you?"

"Do you actually ever listen?"

"Sometimes."

"With what?"

"My ears, obviously." Hale pointed to them and laughed.

When Cade laughed as well, and even Petra started to quietly giggle, Hale fell backwards and let his arms slip into another pile of books.

"I'm sorry for… for just assuming. Good luck, you know… for the future."

Petra smiled at Hale's apology and nodded her head. "You too." When she started to stand up, Cade and Hale exchanged a look, the two of them shared an understanding, a silent understanding, but a strong one all the same.

Before she could leave, Cade spoke up, always the one to do so, the boy who would pull Hale from his books and help him when he needed help.

"If it means anything," Cade said, smiling. "When we're all up against each other, when we have to do what we have to do, I won't… we won't- we won't…"

Petra seemed to understand. "We won't either."

Hale couldn't kill, not when he thought about it.

It just wasn't him. And it probably wasn't Cade either. But if they had to fight, if they had to become people they weren't, then even when the change began, Hale refused to look Petra and her friends in the eyes and be the one to say '_no, you don't deserve to live.'_

He would not kill them.

And if he couldn't ever kill, then he'd have to find another way to fight.

With all his books and all his dreams, Hale wasn't the most obvious choice. But neither was Cade. Neither was Petra. But they each had their strengths. Their power.

Hale's was his knowledge. His ideals. His friend, his alliance.

As long as he believed in something, maybe he had a chance. Maybe… maybe he really did.

* * *

**Training is over!**

**Here are all the confirmed alliances (and our one loner!) They'll be up on the blog, but I thought I'd give a list as well just so they're all here too.**

**The Careers  
Huxley + Petra + Clytie + Emigdio  
Andryn + Nevaeh + Amaya + Audria + Delora  
Barnaby + Travis + Arick + Zeara  
Cade + Hale  
Fira + Gwilym  
Phris**

**I'm not sure how this chapter reads, really. I tried a new thing where I wrote the dialogue first so there was a bit more of it (since dialogue is the bane of my existence) and built the narrative around that. Whether it ended up working, I'm not sure.**

**But I hope you enjoyed it! We're moving towards the end of the Capitol, not long to go!**


	16. Reflections

**Chapter Sixteen.**

* * *

**Private Gamemaker Sessions.**

* * *

**Nevaeh Blume, 15 years old;  
District Five Female.**

* * *

She had promised her Father she wouldn't get lost.

In that chair, with tears on his cheeks, embracing his daughter for the last time, she had made a vow to herself to survive. To fight. Even when all seemed dark, to do what had to be done.

And she had thought she'd had what it took. Not physically. But mentally. Years of drifting on the outskirts, from one place to another, trying to fit in, but not trying hard enough because it never seemed worth it.

That sort of loneliness in the Games would have meant it was her and her alone. No friends. Nothing to worry about but her own life.

And yet now, with light colours in her eyes, forming alongside the words that were spoken and left to hang in the air, she listened to the soft melodic voice of Audria, sat next to her, one hand clasped in Nevaeh's nervous, shaking one.

And then Delora's. Her voice a strong shade of blue, tough, unbeatable, but something pulsing within the centre, as if too much pressure, and it would break.

She'd promised him she wouldn't get lost. She'd promised herself she would only look out for number one. And yet here she was, with the biggest alliance to rival the Careers, and people she could call… friends.

_I have friends._

"You two know what you're doing, right?" Delora asked, leaning forwards so she was practically nose to nose with Audria and Nevaeh.

Andryn had already come and gone. Amaya had asked to be left alone. Distraction made her uneasy.

Nevaeh nodded nervously. "Weapons… they want to see us and our ability to handle weapons. That's the most important thing."

Delora smiled, agreeing. "Exactly. And if you feel like you're not getting anywhere with weapons-"

"We move to something else we're more comfortable with," Audria finished. "Survival skills. Anything to show we at least have one area of expertise."

Nevaeh wasn't entirely sure if she had anything that came to an expertise. Music was her passion. The piano. The soft tunes that drifted through the air, colours spiralling around her eyes, joining the beautiful sounds as her fingers tapped away at the keys.

But the Gamemakers wouldn't provide her with a piano. Not even if she could use it to hurt someone. Kill them.

She wouldn't anyway. Still, the thought made a shiver run down her spine.

"Something the matter?" Delora picked up on it, raising an eyebrow, worried.

_Or is she? _Nevaeh saw the way Amaya looked at Delora. And it was clear that Audria had formed a bond with Nevaeh, even Andryn, over Delora. But she was smart so they said yes, they went with whatever she wanted.

Even if Nevaeh had something to say, she didn't want to voice it. Not loud enough to cause conflict. So far their alliance was working. Even with their numbers, the Careers hadn't really paid much attention. If things went to plan, or at least followed the idea of unity between five girls that would have each other's backs, Delora continued to insist that they had a chance in the bloodbath.

_The bloodbath._

Nevaeh had never had a colour to match the screams of the dying. She'd never been in a place where she'd had to. What would they look like, in the air around her, as the smell of blood and dying children swarmed the space, encasing her in her fear?

_What will the colours look like…?_

She needed to stop this. Audria was her friend. Audria was probably the best friend she'd ever actually had. Something in Audria's eyes understood Nevaeh's hesitation and fear more than anyone, even when Nevaeh didn't have to speak.

Her fingers seemed to instinctively tighten within Nevaeh's grasp, as if she could sense her shift in mood, only growing worse.

Nevaeh met her eyes and smiled sheepishly, bowing her head. "I'll do my best… for the alliance…" Her voice was muffled, but Delora and Audria picked it up and smiled all the same.

When she looked back up, she grinned as well. They seemed to like her company. And that meant the world to Nevaeh. She'd always been worried, every single day, that she might say the wrong thing, that she didn't understand what to say or how to act without unsettling people.

That sort of disconnect had always left her on the outside. And yet here… here she was amongst friends. Maybe the strongest outer-District group altogether. Nevaeh was a part of it.

"Oh, look." Delora tapped Nevaeh on the knee, pointing over her shoulder.

Nevaeh held in a breath at the sight of Barnaby, small and anxious, walking along, trying to keep his head up with a smile. He met the eyes of Nevaeh. She did her best to appease his nerves. When she grinned, he seemed to lighten up a little and hurried towards the elevator.

Maybe Nevaeh was learning. With Audria, Delora, Andryn and Amaya, with her friends, maybe she didn't need to be so bleak and melancholic. Maybe it was possible to open up.

"Nevaeh Blume."

The voice called her from the speakers. It left an awful, foreboding shade of grey hanging in the air, a ribbon that faded quickly as the voice disappeared.

She looked nervously at Audria, then at Delora.

"You'll be fine," Audria squeezed her hand, helping her up.

"Just remember what we've discussed. We're not aiming for impossibly high scores. We're aiming for the best we can do and that's it." Delora smiled. "Make yourself proud."

Nevaeh turned to go. _Make myself proud. _As she walked, Delora's words repeated on a loop, round and round her head. She'd always tried that, really.

It was never a case of being someone she wasn't, but on some level, the people outside her house walls, Nevaeh had always wanted to know. Yet eventually, rather than trying, she'd reached a state of in-between where she simply couldn't.

But that was alright. Looking back, she had her Father, she had a life, however small it might have been, and she'd had her gift. She didn't need to fight for more, when she'd already had what she needed.

Now it was a case of fighting to return there. And maybe it was possible. Maybe Nevaeh had a chance.

The Gamemakers stared her down when she stood on the central spot and gazed up at them. She swallowed nervously and tried to smile.

"N-Nevaeh Blume… District Five…"

The tallest of them all, resplendent in the most magnificent robe she'd ever seen, nodded, her face devoid of emotion. "You may begin."

_Weapons._

As quickly as she could, she hurried to pick up a knife, nothing too fancy, but sharp enough. The dummies were what she'd practiced on before.

If she tried hard enough, she could pretend that in the future, they wouldn't be real life, breathing humans. Right now they were just dummies. Empty.

She went to work. Fabric sliced away at her touch. She did her best to move and weave between the dummies, cutting there, stabbing here, until they were left in tatters at her feet.

"I'm fast enough," Nevaeh said, facing the Gamemakers. "If I'm quick on my feet, I-I can dodge and attack, switching between the… the two…"

She tried to placate her nerves and nodded to herself. Next she tried to throw knives. That didn't go so well but she did her absolute best, slowly growing in confidence, hearing Delora's words ring through her mind again and again.

Once she was done, the smile on her face didn't seem so hard to maintain.

"Thank you." Nevaeh looked at the Gamemakers once more before leaving the room.

For a brief moment, Nevaeh almost forgot herself.

She walked towards her allies with more confidence than she could remember having. Maybe she was running on adrenaline, on the high of showing what she could do, however little that might be.

Or maybe she was changing, and changing for the better.

The Games needed fighters. Even if she wasn't the most conventional of them all, if she didn't embody what the word typically meant, that didn't mean she was useless.

Perhaps back home she was, but this was a new world, with new rules, new expectations.

An awful, terrible place, but a place where she actually had friends, and actually… maybe… maybe had a chance at becoming someone better.

_If that exists… _She'd heard, she'd seen, what the Games did to people. _If that exists, then I have to try._

Trying was all they had in the end.

If she didn't try, the next stage was giving up.

Nevaeh couldn't afford to do such a thing.

* * *

**Cade Grayson, 12 years old;  
District Six Male.**

* * *

Cade had never felt so free.

That was what made his current situation a hundred times worse. The idea of a one-way ticket into the Hunger Games being the price to pay for a sense of freedom.

He looked at Hale, further down the bench, nervously fidgeting, pulling at his fingers, biting his nails and tapping his feet. Cade was remarkably still. His calmness seemed to have the opposite effect on Hale, who continued to stare at him, anxious eyes searching for something relatable.

Cade smiled and waved, grinning. Hale picked up the gesture and stood up, hesitantly moving for Cade, meeting the eyes of the other tributes as he walked down the line.

Hale was a part of what made Cade's sense of freedom so much harder to bear. Even under these circumstances of being paraded around in front of the Capitol, forced to walk from point a to point b, his new life on a strict schedule before he was forced to kill or be killed. Even with all that, Cade was allowed to say what he wanted, do what he wanted, and act how he wanted as long as he did it within reason.

He wasn't an idiot. He knew his boundaries.

But Hale had been the one thing he hadn't expected. In here, especially, Cade's gut feeling, his intuition or whatever, that nervous little voice at the back of his head, hammered and hammered, telling him he couldn't trust anyone.

It was a feeling he had to embrace. The cynical path over the open one. But Hale… Hale didn't fit that. Which made Cade's determination to survive that much more difficult.

"If you don't stop tapping your feet you'll break the floor."

Hale sat down on Cade's right and grinned, that goofy sort of grin that wiped clean any anxiety and shyness in his eyes. "I'm not that strong."

"Be good though wouldn't it?" Cade chuckled. "Have super-powered feet. It'd make this thing a whole lot easier."

"If we're wishing for anything, it'd be…" Hale paused, nervous-face back on. "Well it would be…"

He didn't want to say it out loud. That made it harder to deal with. It made reality sink in that much more, festering below the surface, picking away until there was nothing else left.

Cade nodded his head and smiled sadly. "I know. I'd wish for that too."

"Oh well, we're here now," Hale clapped his hands against his knees, beaming at Cade. Even when certain tributes, the quieter ones, Amaya being one of them, stared over at Hale, he didn't flinch. An improvement over the bookish dweeb he'd encountered two days ago, slaving over the words, oblivious to the world around him. "So have you thought of what you're going to do in there?"

Cade shrugged his shoulders. "A bit of this, a bit of that."

"What's this and what's that?"

"Oh I can't tell you," Cade's eyes twinkled mischievously. "That would spoil it."

"You have no idea do you?"

Cade and Hale looked to their left and met the inquisitive eyes of Amaya, somewhat sceptical, yet with a sort of repressed cheer that made the two of them feel a little more at ease.

Cade had hardly said a word to his District partner. She seemed more frowns than grins. More death than life. The inevitable doom over experiencing everything.

Still, her lip twitched, which made it easier for Cade to smile back.

"Well maybe I don't," he shrugged his shoulders again, laughing. "Improvisation could be the key."

"The key to what?" Amaya asked.

"A good score? Maybe… I don't know."

"Well then," Amaya fell back against the wall. "Good luck."

Hale continued to look between the two, eyes moving to Cade, then eyes moving to Amaya, like some sort of contest was going on, head left then right, on and on. Until Cade laughed and crossed his arms, staring up at the speaker.

"Do you think-"

Hale didn't have time to get it out. The speaker got there first.

"Cade Grayson."

The boy from Six hopped up and smiled. "Well, when she says my name like that, how can a man resist?" He winked at Hale and started to cheerfully walk away, toward the double doors at the end of the corridor.

"You're a kid. Not a man."

Maybe Amaya's distant voice meant it as a joke. However, Cade's stomach did that awful flipping thing whenever someone reminded him of how… small he was. How young. It didn't feel like a joke.

It felt like the same reality of an impossible wish, clawing away. His age meant he had little chance. And that little chance meant he might…

_I can't…_

He made it into the training hall and tried to plaster a smile onto his face. The most smiliest of smiles ever seen. Cade wanted the Gamemakers to see him as someone that could inject a little bit of cheer into things, but still be capable enough to defend his own life and do what had to be done.

Because he did care for Hale. And he'd promised Petra he wouldn't hurt her. Then there was Amaya and her alliance. Large, friendly, a threat that they didn't seem to recognise themselves as.

But even with all of that piled up and up onto his shoulders, Cade still had to do the one thing that would get him out of this alive.

He had to be a tribute.

"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen." Cade stopped in front of the Gamemaker's alcove, all fat and thin, prim and proper, gorged and dyed and jewelled and coloured in front of him. He bowed dramatically, his hand sweeping the air in front of him. "Cade Grayson, District Six. At your service."

"You may begin."

It was the same robotic voice working the speaker system. Cade saluted and turned away, advancing for the first station to catch his eye. He knew this was important. He knew that a number meant a great deal to the most influential of people. But he wasn't doing it for them. He wasn't really doing it for Hale, either.

Cade had cried on the reaping stage. When he'd realised who he really was, an insignificant twelve year old boy, buried underneath expectation and reality, it had made life extremely difficult. And here he was, trying to forget about that and be who he had wanted to be for the whole of his life.

He had to do this to prove to himself that that fight hadn't been a waste.

That he'd been fighting for the right thing.

Time seemed to go a lot faster now that he was in the spotlight. He wasn't the most patient at waiting, but outside those doors, everything seemed to trickle down to a standstill. Now, when Cade found himself holding a small blade in his hand, a set of dummies to his right, and a target range several feet in front of him, he could hear the foreboding sound of the clock ticking down the amount of time he had to perform.

_Perform. _Like he was some kind of monkey for their entertainment.

Holding back the sudden bitterness that came to the front of his mind, Cade threw the knife at the target. It didn't skim the floor or hit the wall. When the blade embedded itself into the target, Cade nearly cheered and fist-pumped the air.

Then his eyes focused in on where it had hit, and Cade let out a disappointed sigh. The outer ring. The most outer of outer rings. Maybe missing would have been the better idea. He wouldn't be able to hit a moving target if he couldn't hit a stationary one properly.

Still, Cade persevered, as he always did, and continued. Knife after knife. Target, after floor, after patch on the wall, after another target, after a few dummies, until all that was left was Cade, panting, ragged breathed, holding a pain in his side as he moved back for the Gamemakers and bowed once again.

"Well… then…." His lungs hurt, like he could breathe fire if he really tried. _That'd be a sight. Roasted Gamemaker. The fat one would probably eat himself. _"Thank… you… for… watching…"

He left the hall, not exactly happy, but content.

That was enough for Cade.

Not great. Not good. Alright.

* * *

**Phris Cantle, 18 years old;  
District Ten Male.**

* * *

Another day, just one more, and they would be in the Games.

Phris looked down the line of tributes, sat on the bench, collectively displaying so many different emotions, so many different shades of the same face, that it was hard for him to focus on just one.

But after tomorrow, fear would be predominant. He didn't know how they did it, how they could stomach the thought of being with someone, or even more than one, knowing what it had to mean if their own survival mattered more in the end.

His eyes drifted over Audria, sat at the end of the bench, with Delora and the quiet girl from Five, smiling as she watched the two of them intently. Her time had already passed and yet she still remained by his District partner's side.

It wasn't that he didn't understand. Audria was that sort of person. And this girl from Twelve seemed to thrive when she surrounded herself with other people. But Phris didn't see this the way they did. This whole charade before the real event overwhelmed them, steadily growing closer and closer with every minute that flew by.

There wasn't any point, even if he could pull out some sense of loyalty when he knew none existed, of allying with someone that had to die. These sessions were a show of strength and skill, even if in the end, no matter how hard Phris tried in that room, luck really won out.

But even if luck was the ultimate factor, his score would reflect on himself and himself only. If he did badly, then no one would suffer but him. And if he did well, then he could reap the rewards without the burden of having to share.

He enjoyed it that way. It was so much easier. His life was in his own hands. And the rest of them, even Audria who shared a part of his home within her, were nothing but hurdles to jump, obstacles in the way.

When he looked at them like that, it made everything a hundred times easier.

Phris' eyes moved over Audria and two of her four allies, glancing just once over the boy from Twelve, but that was enough for his interest to pique. Phris tried not to show his distaste or any sign of emotion when he stood up and moved further down the bench, closer to him.

When he sat down, Phris refrained from making eye contact. Gwilym Collier, whatever he wanted, seemed perfectly content to wait it out.

District Nine's time was soon up. Phris would be called any minute now. He held back a sigh. He held back any flicker of emotion on his face, and turned to look at Gwilym's curious eyes, staring back at him.

When Phris didn't show any signs of being willing to speak first, Gwilym smiled, the corners of his lips twitching up ever so slightly, and nodded.

"Can I ask you something?"

Phris' eyes moved for the wall opposite them. "No."

Audria and so many others were always deterred from continuing when faced with Phris' gruffness. This was different. Gwilym didn't show any hint of relenting.

"Not even one, simple question?" He spoke, politely, softly.

Phris repeated himself. "No."

"Can I ask why?"

"Is that your one, simple question?" Phris said, speaking more than one word.

Gwilym didn't seem nervous at all. In fact he shrugged, shaking his head casually, grinning. "Well, no."

He had an inkling as to why he was here. Phris was fed up of it. He didn't need to even look Gwilym in the eye to understand, to make sense of it. Over and over, the one thing every tribute but Phris shared: the desire to have someone.

Phris continued to avoid eye contact, speaking with next to no emotion. "You can't ask me a question because I know what your question will be. It's the same question everyone but me has either asked, or been asked." He hoped he would get the hint, but still he persisted.

"Which is exactly why that question never once became something I wanted to ask you," Gwilym said. "You're the only person here without an alliance and you want it to stay that way. I wasn't here to ask you to join me."

Phris paused. He didn't look down at the other tributes as beneath him; Phris simply just didn't care. But Gwilym seemed different. Different enough for Phris to bother to open his mouth and voice his confusion.

"Then what?"

"I'm simply curious," Gwilym said. "Why? Why turn away support when everyone around you, every single tribute against you, has someone watching their back?"

"I have my reasons," Phris replied.

"May I ask what they are?"

He had to say it. He had to voice it. The one thing above all else that wouldn't leave him alone in the Capitol. He found it almost impossible to detach himself completely from everyone. It left Phris hanging on the sidelines, observing, shaking his head, confused.

Gwilym seemed interested enough for Phris to speak it out loud.

"The reason behind the one thing we all want. I want to survive." Phris finally made eye contact with Gwilym, who didn't shrink under his fiery stare. "And for that, you all – including you and your curious self – have to die. For me there's a simple answer to that. Rather than offer someone my back to stab, I protect myself and myself only. It makes things easier."

"There's a thin line between caution and paranoia," Gwilym pointed out.

He wasn't being paranoid. He didn't care enough to be paranoid. Except for Audria who Phris only looked at differently because she was from home, there was nothing else. Nothing else tethering him to anything but his own life, his own ambition, his own hope to make it home, even if what he'd left behind was meaningless to him.

"If I was someone's ally, I'd stab them in the back. I expect it return," Phris said.

Gwilym straightened his back and nodded. "Well, thank you for answering my question."

Phris' eyes moved over Gwilym's shoulder, landing on the girl from Eleven, who's eyes flickered once onto Gwilym's back, and then once more onto the floor at her feet.

"Is she your ally?" Phris asked.

He looked over his shoulder at the bench to his left. "Who? Fira? Yeah, yeah she is."

"Why are you sat here with me and not with her?"

Gwilym turned back to face Phris. "She's focusing on what to do past those doors. A lot rides on these numbers. At least that's what she thinks."

A simple number. And apparently it was one of the most important part of these Games. Phris didn't necessarily believe that. But he still had the will to strive for something. Something above the others. Not to prove himself to them. Maybe he simply needed to show that he had a chance, show it to himself.

"Shouldn't you be worrying more about your performance, rather than questioning why I sit here alone?"

The boy from Twelve shrugged his shoulders, his eyes drifting for the wall opposite the benches. "In the Games there's skill with weapons, and there's skill at working out your fellow tributes. Each are equally important. Maybe even what we pick up on our opponents being the higher of the two. You're the only person here I haven't seen much of. Thought I'd ask."

He didn't know what to say to that. Luckily for him, he didn't need to. The same robotic, monotonous voice drifted from the speakers, alongside the footsteps of the girl from Nine hurriedly leaving the training hall.

"Phris Cantle."

Gwilym smiled. "That's you."

"That's me." Phris stood up, clenched and unclenched his fists, and looked down at Gwilym, who stared back up at him.

"Well, good luck," Gwilym said.

"I'd wish you the same, but then that means wishing you an advantage." Phris started to walk away. "An advantage you can't have."

It was him and him alone. He was sure he'd made the right decision. The best decision.

There was no turning back.

And for that, he was glad.

* * *

**Only one more Capitol chapter with tribute POVs! After that will be Launch done in the same style as my last few SYOTS. Then the Games! :D **

**The training scores will be up on the blog, since I don't have a chapter or section where they're announced in the story. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	17. Out of Mind

**Chapter Seventeen.**

* * *

**Interviews.**

* * *

**Diantha Cravelle, 18 years old;  
District Two Female.**

* * *

Diantha picked a fleck of glitter from her scalp, wrinkled her nose, and flicked it away.

"When they said glamorous, I didn't think that meant drowning me in a bucket of this crap."

Uriah stood just behind her. Without Diantha's permission, his own fingers went through her blonde hair, picking out pieces of pink, gold and silver. "Jeez, this stuff is like welded onto your head."

"At least I have a pretty dress. You've been stuffed into some… suit, rock, hybrid thingy. Maybe they're trying to tell you something."

Uriah's voice took a turn for the worst, once again, for the hundredth time. "What? That you can't draw blood from a stone? Which is exactly the point. No one's gonna be drawing blood from this boulder."

"Boulder? You basically called yourself fat."

Diantha looked over her shoulder and stifled a snort at his expression. A mixture between hurt and confusion. It was something of a habit of his. When he didn't have a stick shoved up his backside, Uriah always looked torn between two sides of himself.

"I did not," he said, firmly.

"Whatever. Just… don't touch my hair and we'll leave it at that."

"Fine." He crossed his arms – which proved to be a difficult task considering he was plastered in sheets of stone – and raised an eyebrow. "Guess you're going on next. Alston seems about done."

Diantha couldn't help herself. At the mention of his name, it was practically bursting to be sung. "Uriah and Alston, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-"

Uriah swatted Diantha's shoulder. "Sometimes you act so high and mighty. And then other times you take the piss outta me. What's your game?"

_He has a point. _Diantha was working hard to find a balance between being her fun, friendly self, and putting on this face that needed to be seen. She wasn't going to be pinned down by Riena's constant tirade on responsibility and maturity, but she wasn't about to become stupid enough to meander into the Games without something of a plan. And her allies.

Her allies were important.

"The Hunger Games is my game. You might have heard of it."

"Course I ha-"

"And now, from District Two, Diantha Cravelle!"

Uriah's irritating voice was cut off. Caesar Flickerman gestured to the sidelines, Diantha suddenly realised it was now her turn, and slowly she started to walk, confident and poised, towards the stage.

Alston brushed past her without so much as looking in her direction. She didn't mind. Slowly over the course of the Capitol, she'd realised what she actually was to this alliance. What her stake in their group had become.

A link.

They were so distant. Almost three separate games playing within the same one alliance. But there was Diantha. A constant presence. District partners with Uriah, which in turn meant Alston. Friends – if she could call them that – with Romina and Riena. And then Theon.

Theon who was a mystery. But the same Theon that Diantha respected. Apart from Romina, she was the only person he'd really spent time with.

That was who Diantha was to this alliance. The glue. The only thing really holding them together, even if none of them saw it that way.

_But first…_

She sat down into the chair, crossed one leg over another, and exhaled, calming her nerves. There was a big difference between being in the spotlight back home, and the spotlight here. Millions were watching her. In Two, it was whoever cared enough about Diantha's name.

"I've been looking forward to this."

Diantha met Caesar's grin, complementing his tanned face, sunburnt red hair, and eyelashes that twinkled in the light. She tried to hold back a nervous sweat budding on her forehead.

That would not do her image any good.

"Have you now?" she purred.

Caesar clapped his leg and nodded, from predator to elementary school child, overeager in a single second. "Indeed. I think the whole of the Capitol – no, the whole of Panem, has been interested in you, Miss Cravelle." The crowd roared her name. In that instant her nerves were gone, smothered under praise and adoration. It was hard to be nervous when already they seemed to love her.

"Diantha, please," she started to say. "And who knows, when I get back, it might not be Miss or Cravelle for that much longer."

_As if. _

"Oh, really? Is there someone…?" Caesar trailed off, intrigued.

"No, not just yet. I'm perfectly happy living my life and enjoying myself without someone. But being a Victor, settling back down, maybe it'd be time to open myself up to new things." Diantha nestled her hands perfectly in her lap, ignoring the itching feeling on her scalp caused by the glitter, and smiled, beaming for the cameras.

Caesar chuckled. "Settling down? That doesn't sound like you."

Sometimes it killed Diantha to be serious. And in this place, in the Games, that was a transition she had to make. But on stage, it was easier to be the girl that didn't need to put on a mask of coldness, of arrogance, of everything the Arena needed. On this stage, she could enjoy herself.

"Well, if settling down means partying, then sure, sign me up."

Caesar let the crowd hoot their joy and applaud, screaming Diantha's name over and over again. She was convinced she could say anything – talk about her breakfast, or what socks went good with her favourite shoes – and they would still love her. Not that she was complaining.

She liked being loved.

"Back to the Games themselves," Caesar's voice lowered a tad, away from the fun and back to business. "It's no secret that One, Two and Four usually team up. And it's no secret that we aren't just a little curious where each of the alliance's members fit in. So what about you, the illustrious Diantha Cravelle… where do you stand?"

_Between them all. Holding them together. Not a job I want. But not a job I'm going to turn down either if it means surviving. _

"A few inches below Alston, a couple above Romina…" Diantha joked, giggling.

Caesar's serious face fell and he guffawed, clapping his hands. "Oh you tease."

Again more laughter, again she had to wait, and again she was happy to, until the noise settled down once more.

"But seriously, where do I fit in…?" Diantha paused, pretending to think it over. "Well, I think it's important to find a balance between what you have to do for the sake of winning, and what you have to do as a person to remain as the same individual that you arrived as. And it's important to know when to sacrifice which of the two when you can't have both."

Caesar's interested smile faltered. "So you're saying that… you aren't one-hundred percent sure of your victory?"

She had to flip the situation back around. And so she did. Easily. Confidently smiling, she looked straight into Caesar's eyes, and shook her head.

"On the contrary, sir. I'm saying the exact opposite. Decisions have to be made. Good and bad are switched around, twisted and become meaningless. I fit in because I know what I have to do, I know who I am, and I know who I'm willing to become, what I'm willing to do, for the sake of why I'm here."

"To win," Caesar said. A statement. Not a question.

"To win," Diantha nodded. "Why else would I be here?"

He looked at the crowd and flashed them a dazzling, pearly-white smile. "For the fans?"

Diantha broke eye contact with Caesar and cast her gaze across the audience. They were either hoping for her survival, or hoping for her victory. Or maybe a bit of both. They'd cheer when she won, and clap and laugh when they saw her blood pumping out onto the ground, as the life left her body.

_Well… I know which cheers I want. _The ones that came with living.

"You all mean the world to me, of course," she turned to face Caesar, again. "But I'm here for me. Me only. No weakness. No attachments. Allies, not friends. And if my alliance looks at me differently for saying it how it has to be, then they aren't the strong allies that I thought they were. If they don't get it, then that's their problem."

She was saying what had to be said. And underneath it was all was the truth. The truth of the Games. What she had to do, what was expected, and how she had to win.

But she didn't hate her allies, either. She wasn't about to be bossed around by Riena, who had all the excitement of a goldfish, made clear behind that pretty little reserved, responsible smile. And everyone else… they had to become nothing, but for now they were something.

They were allies, before they became obstacles.

Caesar reached out and held delicately onto Diantha's hand. "Charming, playful, gorgeous, and with a bite to back it all up. You're one to watch."

As he helped Diantha to her feet, she smiled once more and nodded. "Always have been, always will be."

"Miss Cravel- Diantha. Diantha, ladies and gentlemen. Of District Two!"

Once she left the stage, she joined the circle of Careers. Alston and Riena hadn't left. They stared at her when she stood next to them, silent at first, until Riena decided to speak up.

"Did you mean it?"

Diantha didn't waste a second. "Of course. But that doesn't mean I'm not here for you all."

"You sounded pretty certain about where your loyalties lie," Romina said, from Riena's left.

"To myself. I tell lies. I tell a lot of them. And I'll do what it takes to win. But I'm not going to pretend I volunteered for something other than actually surviving. It's the same for each and every one of you as well. Why bother trying to make us believe something we won't? Not ever."

"Because it's…" Romina halted.

"Because, it's what? Nicer? Easier? Nice and easy don't belong in this world. Nice and easy are back home. Learn to adapt. Learn to live up to who you want to be. Who you believe you are."

"I know I have," Alston smiled.

"And me!" Uriah shouted, before leaving for the stage.

"Me too," Theon said, from the background.

Diantha looked around them all, grinned, and nodded her head.

"Then good. We know what has to be done. What we have to do. Tomorrow, we don't hold back."

Tomorrow, the Games would begin.

* * *

**Audria Kivare, 16 years old;  
District Ten Female.**

* * *

"They did it to me too," Delora said.

Their alliance was in a circle, near to the stage curtains.

Andryn, Nevaeh, Audria and Delora. Amaya had left straight after her interview. Audria didn't blame her. Though Delora might look at her way of perceiving the alliance with mistrust, Audria accepted her for her. Because this was the Games. Amaya seemed the only person who was playing them the way they had to be played.

Audria looked down at her dress, eyes fixated on her oversized chest. _Stuffed. _They'd actually stuffed the upper portion of her dress to accentuate parts of her body that were… lacking. At least that was what they'd said. And that was what Audria thought.

She always thought like that. What someone had, she didn't. And what she had, she knew no one ever wanted. Yet it was a constant game of false masks and friendliness where there shouldn't be any. Audria, in a way, was fitting in with the Capitol's perception of doing things more than anyone else.

Still, she pulled at her dress, frowned, and looked at Delora. "It's not- I mean… who cares? The Games are tomorrow. _Tomorrow._"

Andryn's lips curled up into a smile. As if smiles solved the world's problems, all day, every day, no matter the issue. _If only… _

"Don't worry girls, it's one night of your lives. One evening."

Delora, however, only started to frown even more, tugging at her dress uncomfortably. "Says the girl who didn't need her dress stuffed. At least you've got Capitol approved…" she paused, blushing.

"I never knew you'd noticed my chest, Delora," Andryn smirked, arching an eyebrow playfully.

"I… I… no… I…"

The girl from Three waved it away, laughing. "I'm kidding. Honestly, just give them what they want. Nevaeh was alright because they seem to have a thing against sexualizing anyone under sixteen. And Amaya… well she just went with it. You two will be fine."

Audria wasn't so sure it was that easy. The Capitol wanted people of merit. Talent. Important people. Tributes that had what it took to be a Victor. If Audria couldn't even handle the idea that she had to have her chest blown up because she wasn't attractive enough, what hope did she have facing down the real threats tomorrow, or the next day? _If I make it past tomorrow._

For group morale, however, she smiled the same timid, yet friendly smile that the alliance had come to expect from her.

"Fine," Audria said.

"Yeah. We'll be fine." Delora seemed less happy to comply, but she did, forcing her own smile onto her face.

There was a loud cheering coming from stage. They'd gotten so distracted about how they looked that they'd completely forgotten who was on stage. Delora had gathered them around the screen earlier in hopes of watching every single interview. Now that they were at the front of the side-stage, they had a proper background view of everything.

The more they learnt, the easier it might be somewhere down the line.

Audria wasn't sure she believed that either. And normally she might say something, even if it would go unheard. But Delora was kind. Maybe too kind. So she never did. She never said a thing.

Hale's name was called out and Audria froze, an anxious sweat building on her forehead. If he was leaving, that meant…

"It's me… next."

This was the one part of the Capitol she'd been dreading. The Chariots were one thing, but this…? Forced in front of everyone, made to smile and laugh and bat her eyelashes, it was everything she'd ever done layered to a degree she had no way of achieving.

She wasn't sure how she, someone so average, someone from District Ten, a nobody really, could get the Capitol who believed in strength and appeal, to like her.

Andryn nodded over Delora's shoulder, in the direction of someone lurking around the audio equipment. "Your District partner's sure to do a bang-up job at getting them to like him."

_Phris. _She hadn't really gotten to know him that well. But he was a piece of home. In someways, she felt closer to him than she did her own alliance. Except for Nevaeh.

"He doesn't want them to like him. He wants their respect. Or maybe he doesn't care about that and just wants them to take his chances seriously."

"Believe me, we are," Delora said.

Audria's eyes widened. "You don't mean we're going to… you know…" She couldn't. She wouldn't. In no conceivable way could Audria stare down her District partner and actually… kill him. Not that she could do that anyway, to anyone.

Delora shook her head. "Not yet. But there will come a time when we don't have a choice. When we can't change our minds based on who our opponent is."

"I know," Audria frowned.

She felt a hand slip into her own, a friendly presence by her shoulder. She looked down and met the gentle, kind stare of Nevaeh. Her only real companion here. Someone she truly cared for. Audria would stare down anyone, fight off anything, if the two of them could survive.

The problem was mustering up that sort of courage. Impossible.

"It's alright, Audria. He's your District partner. He wouldn't attack you. Or us," Nevaeh said, smiling.

"Thanks, Nevaeh."

Her name was called and on she went. She tried her best to stop her panicked, sharp breathing. _In, out… in, out… in, out… _Finally she was in front of the chair, sitting down, with Caesar staring two feet in front of Audria, staring at _her._

_Me!_

As hard as everything had been, one thing had always come back to her. She'd never turned her back. Said no. Walked away. She fought, even if she'd never quite understood why, to at least try. Training, she'd learnt something. She'd made allies, even when she was so sure that no one would want her.

This interview couldn't be any different. This interview had to help her, and her allies.

"That's a lovely dress, Audria."

Of course he had to start with the dress.

Her fingers instinctively went to the silvery strap. She played with it nervously. "Thank you, Caesar." _Stop it. Stop it. _Her hand fell back to her lap and she smiled as best she could. As confidently as she could. "That's a very handsome suit."

"You make me blush."

His cheeks didn't change colour. Something told Audria they probably couldn't unless injected with something. Still, the audience cheered and clapped. When she heard her name shouted out loud, for a second she froze, eyes on the brink of widening in shock.

She knew they were told to act this way. And they did for anyone. But it was still… mesmerizing, being the centre of attention when all she'd ever felt was lost, drifting amongst nothingness.

_Try. Try, Audria._

"So shall we get to it then? This is about me, after all. Regardless of how good looking Caesar is tonight."

Once again they cheered, and Audria forced the smile on thick, leaning back into the seat with her hands crossed lightly over one leg.

"Too right you are. Where should we begin?"

"You ask the questions. I'm here to answer."

"Again, too right you are," Caesar chuckled. "Shall we start with that rather impressively large alliance you seemed to have built up? We've heard about it from three other tributes. Andryn, Nevaeh and Amaya. What's your perspective on it?"

_That I only wanted to be friends with Nevaeh, and there came Delora, strong Delora, intimidating Delora, Delora with so many questions, so much insight… how could I have said no?_

She'd never belittled either of them. Never made them out to be so small, so insignificant. She knew just what to say to make Nevaeh feel good, and Audria question why she ever had a minute amount of distrust towards her.

If it was as strategy, or simply who Delora really was, Audria hadn't an answer to that.

It was all so complicated.

"Yes it's a large alliance, but you know what they say, there's strength in numbers and we stand by that."

Caesar cocked an eyebrow. "You aren't worried about what posing such a large threat might mean?"

"A large threat?"

_No. Act confident. Don't put the team down._

"Yes. Five attractive, strong girls, going against the other nineteen tributes. That must look like something to them all."

"Well, I'm sure it does," Audria said. She was starting to fidget. Starting to feel like the walls were collapsing, suffocating her, clawing down her throat and hurting every part of her body. _It'll be over soon… _"But we're in this together. We know what we have to do, and as we have each other's backs, we're also thinking of the bigger picture."

"Which is?"

Audria's face became expressionless. Emotionless.

"Survival."

"But-"

"Only one can win, yes." Audria looked over Caesar's shoulder, meeting Nevaeh's gentle eyes, Andryn's cheerful eyes, and Delora's empty stare, waiting… waiting for something she might say. "One can win. But that one will be within the alliance we've made. I'm confident that we have what it takes."

She'd stood up for them. She'd done her bit. And maybe, just maybe, they would be taken seriously.

No matter where they were from, hopefully they did really have a chance Audria wanted to believe in. She cared for them. She didn't want them to feel pain and hurt when all Audria had ever felt in her life was suffering.

But in the Games, she couldn't have her wish. So she had to focus on being with them, together, and working for the sake of progress and unity.

They couldn't all win.

But one could.

One had to.

* * *

**Emigdio Santiago, 18 years old;  
District Eleven Male.**

* * *

The Careers had decided to wait.

Emigdio watched them, himself and his alliance positioned at the front, ready to wish him good luck, with their whispers and stares locked on his back, somewhere at the end of the line.

Huxley and Petra didn't seem to notice. Clytie, however, switched between glancing in their direction, and meeting the resentful eyes of Emigdio.

He didn't want to let her down. He didn't want to feel this mismatch of emotions; emotions that could be trouble in the future. Tomorrow he had a job to do. Survive for himself, survive for his children and everyone back in Eleven, and help his friends survive as well.

But they… they were the ones who jeopardized that. They were the ones who could, potentially, kill all four of them in the space of seconds tomorrow. He could fight. Not as well as them. But he could still fight.

Until he couldn't do so any longer, he had something to say about what they had planned in the bloodbath.

He looked down at Petra, who smiled in return. She wasn't nervous, but she wasn't too open either. None of them were. Clytie tried her hardest, and Emigdio did too, in stark contrast to how he was with most people back in Eleven, but something in their silence united them even more than words did.

But just as much as words could calm him down, they could do the exact opposite.

"I bet he doesn't even have kids, not really."

Emigdio's head snapped round, his eyes narrowing into slits. Alston and Uriah were speaking, glaringly obvious, about Emigdio, with their allies around them, staring in silence.

"I mean, it's obviously a strategy to get sponsors. Smart, but like… who lies about kids?"

Emigdio's hands clenched into fists.

He never hit people. Standing up for himself and others was one thing, but beating someone to a pulp was another. Usually it was more distant scowls and annoyed grumblings. But his kids…

_Why would I lie about my-_

"What kind of sick fuck would make up invisible children as a sob story to help bring him back home? Shut up you two. He's obviously genuine."

He met the eyes of Diantha. She nodded. Emigdio only stared for a second longer before facing Clytie, who had a hand on his shoulder. His heart was pumping furiously in his chest. He had to take two sharp breaths to calm himself down, before a one-sided, forced smile replaced the irritated curl of his lip.

"Sorry… I…"

"What gives them the right?" Clytie's cheeks were bright red, even as her hand continued to stay on Emigdio's shoulder. Obviously she'd forgotten it was still there. "Making up your children? That's something they would do. But you… us… _no, _no that's just… they can't talk to you like that."

"Ignore them, Emigdio," Petra spoke up, her soft, friendly eyes meeting his.

He knew why he'd said yes so quickly to Petra. And why he'd accepted Huxley at the same time. They were years older than his own children, closer to his own age than his beloved son and daughter, but there was something too… too pure about them.

It would get him killed, he knew that.

But it wasn't so easy to become someone he wasn't, even if it was the supposed way of going about this Game. He couldn't just flick a switch and turn it off.

_Still…_

"Emigdio Santiago, District Eleven!"

His thoughts were drowned out by Caesar's enthusiastic, cheerful voice, announcing the next interview. It took Emigdio a second to realise it was his name he'd said.

"Oh…" Suddenly he felt nervous, rather than angry, and something awful twisted in his stomach. Something that made him want to be a sick. "Shit." His eyes fell on Petra, and all of a sudden he thought about his daughter, and what he'd be like if she'd heard him swear, "I mean… sorry. Just. It's me. Me."

"You'll be fine," Huxley said, smiling.

"Honestly you will," Clytie removed her hand from his shoulder, blushing, and instead opted to squeeze his hand reassuringly. "You've got this. Honestly, it's easier once you're up there."

"Trust us," Petra's voice followed Emigdio as he started to move for the stage. "A lot easier."

_A lot easier…_

Once he was sat in the chair, nerves and mind on haywire, he was starting to think maybe they'd just said that to get him on the stage. Emigdio had led a hard life, sure, but everyone led hard lives. He was in no position to complain. And he didn't complain. He went to and fro, between being a father, a brother, a son, a husband, and a worker that supported all of them and himself.

Now this… this was something else entirely. Forget devoted family member, forget Emigdio: the responsible cog in the grand machine of District Eleven. He was now a tribute.

He was now in front of millions. Nothing but a puppet on strings.

"Fuck…"

Caesar's laugh brought a blush to his face. He realised what he'd said, once again, cursing before he could stop himself, and fidgeted nervously.

"You certainly have a style of language you like to use. I think we all remember that marvellous reaction at the reaping."

He didn't like attention being brought back to that. He'd lost control. He wasn't proud, and if he could reverse back time, he would. But what was done was done. Caesar didn't have to bring it up.

_But neither did I have to swear._

"Sorry. I-" he frowned, fidgeting again.

_Since when did sitting become so hard… where do I put my leg…? _He tried crossing it, and when that became awkward and uncomfortable, he set it down and started to tap his foot nervously against the stage floor. The crowd was laughing. Emigdio's face was brightening with embarrassment and hostility. But Caesar… Caesar did nothing but watch.

Thankfully, his peaceful behaviour made it easier for Emigdio to settle down.

"Yeah, sorry. So… should we begin?"

Caesar laughed, brightly and merrily. "Oh Emigdio. We already have. Some tributes need questions at the very beginning. Some don't need anything but a look, a word, a wink, a wave, a kiss, whatever. Naturally reacting to the interview shows us who you are as a person. We love to see the real you."

Emigdio could probably name about six people that had actually been themselves on stage. It was an exhaustive list. Still, he smiled, not a big smile, but a smile nonetheless. It had the right effect. At least it warranted a reaction that wasn't laughing at his idiotic attempts at being peaceful.

They clapped and hooted his name, their general liveliness overwhelming Emigdio as he stared at them all, blinking.

He hated them. He hated Caesar. He hated the Careers. The President. Everyone. But he would control his anger and put it into something worthwhile. Getting through this interview without storming off was a step in that direction.

"Well, if you're going to do something to get that natural reaction from me, please don't let it be a kiss."

His half-hearted attempt at a joke earned another desired response. Caesar clapped him on the knee and wiped a pretend tear from his eye. The drama layered on thick made Emigdio's throat tighten; the vein in his forehead throb, but he held it all back and smiled.

"You're a funny lad, Emigdio."

"I try." His mind raced back to the interviews he'd already seen, by those better on stage than he was, and attempted to gaze out at the camera with a wink and a confidence in his expression to rival Alston and the rest of his bunch of thugs. "We all have our talents."

"It's good to see you like this. Away from Eleven, away from that crude language, and in a city that welcomes you." Caesar flourished his hands and laughed. "What about the other tributes, have they been welcoming?"

He had half a mind to bring up how much he disliked certain tributes. How badly he wanted to be as far away as possible from them. But he didn't. Instead he focused on what he had found in this dark, dreary city, shrouded in a fake sense of fashion, food and blood-sport.

His friends.

"I've made an alliance. They've already spoken about it, surely?"

Caesar nodded. "Well, we like to hear it from each of you. Why don't you tell me a bit about them?"

"Hm."

Emigdio thought hard. He wasn't good at translating how he felt into words. Not important words. Maybe one or two. But one or two wasn't good enough here. He was known for having the highest score outside the Careers, even matching the girl from Four, but he had to have something else, not just brute force backing him up.

So he swallowed a lump in his throat, and smiled for the cameras.

"Clytie is the kind of girl I want my little sister to grow up to be. The kind of girl she will become. The two of them are so kind, so thoughtful, but they have energy and know when it's time to have fun, and when it's time to calm down and be serious."

His heart was pulsing harshly in his chest. He hated giving them this. Connecting his time in the Capitol with his family back home was painful. But it was what they wanted. It would give his alliance a fighting chance when the sponsors came pouring in.

"Then there's Huxley. He knows his stuff. And though he's not the loudest, I think that's where his charm is. He's not pretending. He's not being someone he isn't. He's a quiet kid, awkward at times, and struggles with how he comes across, but he's gentle, and like Clytie, kind. That's the sort of friend I want in the Games."

_Friend. _The Capitol might hate that he branded his allies as friends. But fuck them. He wouldn't let them take that away, not when they'd already taken so much.

"And then Petra…" Emigdio flinched. He saw her, his daughter, so close, yet so far away at the same time. His children. The most important two people in his lives. And he had allies that reminded him so much of them. "Petra is quiet like Huxley, but in a different sense of the word. She knows what she's doing. And she doesn't open up much, but she's polite, thoughtful, and respects you for who you are. Again, that's the kind of person I want with me. Friends."

Because they were friends. They were his greatest strength, and his greatest weakness.

Tomorrow, he would find out if he'd made a decision that would save his life, or one that would curse him to never see his family again. A curse that would kill him.

Tomorrow… tomorrow it all began.

* * *

_**Final opinion chart for all twenty-four tributes?**_

_**Favourite alliance and why?**_

* * *

**I have no idea why this chapter turned out to be this long…**

**Anyway! Yes, every tribute has now had their second POV! And really, that's it for the POV structure. The next chapter we have launch, and then the bloodbath, and my Games will be styled the same as they were in my last SYOT.**

**I know it's not everyone's favourite format. But it works for me. I get more out of it. Tributes get shown so much more. Basically, yeah. It just works. Still, I'll miss the POVs. And I hope with them you've gotten to know the tributes well enough to be sad when they die, and to root for those that you want to survive!**

**Launch never takes me long. Honestly, I could get it written tomorrow. Whether I post it tomorrow does, to be honest, depend on the review count for this chapter. If they come in faster, I'll update fast. If I have to wait, I'll wait. If you want the bloodbath potentially this weekend or the start of next week, you know what to do ;)**

**But yesss, thanks for reading. Only one more chapter to go!**


	18. Pray

**Chapter Eighteen.**

* * *

**Launch.**

* * *

_They aren't suspicious._

Arick woke up, stretched out his arms with a yawn, and for a brief second, before the gravity of today's situation hit him with full on force, a smile made its way onto his face.

He wasn't totally convinced, but he believed his lie had been bought.

The dumb yet charming fighter, the arrogant yet determined pawn of the Capitol. Everyone seemed to believe he was nothing more than a deluded kid who thought he had what it took. Whether that was the intended strategy or not, back home, they hadn't really told him how to play this part except that it had to be played until the very end.

But he'd done something.

For the first time in a long time, he'd made himself proud.

Zeara, a few rooms down, woke up around the same time as her District partner. Unlike Arick, she awoke to a stunning sensation of reality, clipping her in the jaw, leaving her winded in her bed. Natural instinct caused her to clench her fists and lash out at her pillow. Breathing heavily, with angry tears in her eyes, Zeara took two deep breaths and settled her inconsistent, sharp heart-rate.

At the sound of footsteps outside, no doubt Arick come to accompany her to breakfast as the gentlemen he liked to be, she stood up, wiped away any sign of weakness in the form of tears, and hurried for the door. They were a team. Friends. Arick had his purpose. And what Zeara had decided to do about the whole situation, she wasn't sure. But a team was a team.

They stuck together.

A floor below Arick and Zeara, Travis lazily walked from his room. His eyes were rimmed blue, bloodshot, tinged with a defeated shade of red, all signs of happiness extinguished. But he still smiled that whimsical, toothy smile, and over breakfast, he did his best to joke, talk and maintain everything that they had come to expect from a boy like him. The escort laughed alongside Travis, oblivious to the sadness locked tight in his expression, oblivious to everything that went on, really, but Petra could see exactly what he was doing. He covered up his reality with a false sense of hope. If only it were that easy for everyone.

She felt sorry for him. Sorry for herself. Sorry for each and every tribute. But that didn't change what was about to happen to them all; where they were about to go. In the Arena, bombarded under a storm of Gamemaker fury, she didn't have time to feel sorry for anyone but herself.

She'd gotten too close to her allies. No, they weren't just allies. They were friends. And that was a problem, an impossible problem. But they were strong. She wasn't just with them because they were good people, she was with them because Emigdio would defend against anybody to protect Petra. She needed that. She wasn't strong enough physically to fend off another tribute, Petra being all brown eyes, twiggy limbs and bones jutting from skin. And she'd rejected Travis early on, partly because of their District bond, and partly because he didn't have the right mind-set to survive.

She just hoped she knew what she was doing. It was too late to back out now.

Meanwhile, a floor above the lobby, Alston was throwing flakes of cereal across the dining table, grinning brightly when Riena cracked her own little smile, giggling. He wasn't prepared to give it his all for anybody except himself, but there was something nice about hearing Riena laugh, even when today was it. The day the Games began.

He knew what he had to do. He knew where he stood with the Careers. But that didn't mean he didn't want to enjoy himself for however long he could. Riena didn't really see it the same way as Alston, she'd buckled down, kept her head focused, and eyes on the way forwards ever since coming here. It was still nice, however, to take a deep breath and relish in these last few moments of peace, before their world erupted into chaos.

"We're a team, Alston," Riena said, when he slowly lowered his hand from throwing bits of breakfast around the place. "We're in this together."

"I've got your back, don't ya worry."

"Likewise."

District Two had the same sort of relationship. Though Diantha was much more jovial than Riena, throwing jokes back at Uriah at a pace he couldn't quite match, there was a sense of seriousness clotting the air, darkening their light-hearted humour. Underneath the shroud of their reality, they were still united. Uriah was in constant competition with Alston, and though he didn't think on as deep a level as his frenemy from One, he still believed he had what it took.

Diantha did as well. They weren't the closest alliance, but the bonds they'd made within were cemented enough to make it through the bloodbath with cohesion and a strong effect.

Uriah had behaved the way he wanted to behave. Diantha had done the same. Now in the Games, it was a test of everything, a test of who they were, changing them for the better, or for the worst.

They both believed they had what it took. Only one could win, but for now they were a team, for now they had each other's support.

When it was finally time to be escorted to the roof, District Ten happened to be the first two tributes to make it to the elevator. A tense silence hung thick in the air. Their Escort tapped away at the glass floor with her heel, whistling to herself absent-mindedly, completely oblivious to the tear that rolled down the bridge of Audria's nose.

The moment the doors opened, the moment the air whipped her face and the tributes set their eyes upon her, her allies witnessed her, Audria would have to stomach everything and behave the way she had to behave. But right now, the fear tightened her heart, vice-like in its grip, and she reacted the way any sane person would in the face of certain death.

_Because it is certain death. _

She didn't make any noise, nothing too obvious, but when the tears continued to fall, Phris was all too aware of what his District partner was doing. He said nothing, lips kept tightly shut. It wasn't weakness. It wasn't much of anything. He respected her, almost, for accepting her emotions and dealing with them the way _she _wanted. Not the way anyone else expected.

He didn't have a tear in his eye. His lip didn't tremble. There was nothing but a fierce determination, where with Audria there was a longing for her home, no matter how harsh it had been. Together, they shared that. Both had mental strength, both had a united experience of how badly District Ten could affect a person, and though they weren't in this together, they hoped that if it wasn't them who won, the other would.

They weren't friends. But they had something. Something that made the silence easier to bear.

Once the tributes reached the roof, they were split apart and herded in two separate lines towards mighty metallic beasts, otherwise known as hovercrafts, ready to carry them to the Arena.

Huxley swallowed a lump in his throat at the sight of such marvellous technology. He'd never seen one this close before, never seen the delicacy put into its craftsmanship and spectacular form. _This is where I should be… what I wanted to grow up to do… and it's all being taken from me._

From somewhere to his right, across the other side of the vast expanse atop the Training Centre, he heard Andryn shout his name. A heavy dread settled in his stomach when he tried to match the smile and thumbs-up she threw his way.

Even to this day, she was trying so hard, _too _hard. Huxley did his best, but it was never enough. She waved again and he turned to face the front, clenching his fists, burying down his fear, and holding back a wave of fresh tears.

He wouldn't let anyone see him cry. Andryn hadn't cried once, maybe for her own reasons, maybe for no reason at all. Huxley had his own motivations behind the way he acted. Clytie placed a hand on his shoulder from her place behind him, and gave it a comforting squeeze, gently smiling when he looked over and met her eyes.

"In and out, before anyone notices," she whispered.

Huxley nodded. That was their strategy. They needed supplies, but they wouldn't hang around for long. Emigdio had a high score, perhaps too high of a score. Clytie and their defender from Eleven had impressed with their interviews. They would be targets.

_Did I make the wrong decision…? _It was too late to change anything. He'd only wanted friends, and in turn, when he'd found such a welcoming group, he'd allied with a tribute that had the attention of people that it would be smart to avoid. Especially today.

"In and out," Huxley whispered, his lip trembling.

Hopefully they would all survive the bloodbath. They had to.

The tributes boarded the hovercrafts. As they slowly started to ascend into the air, Fira looked up and saw a woman in a white laboratory coat, thick-framed glasses attached to a chain round her ears. She didn't smile, she didn't do much of anything, her face set in a permanent, chiselled expression of apathy.

When she yanked Fira's arm upwards and injected something into her skin without so much as a warning, the girl from Eleven couldn't hold back the yelp that rattled out, painfully, from her throat.

"Thanks," she breathed, harshly. "I'm guessing this the means by which you stalk us in the Arena?"

The woman nodded and moved on. Once she had passed to inflict her wrath upon another tribute, Fira smiled when she saw Gwilym sat opposite her. They were in this together. Though they had formed somewhat of a bond over the past few days, they valued each other's strength more than their shallow connection.

Fira needed that. For when the time came and this couldn't continue, too much care would jeopardise her future. Gwilym thought the same way. He'd grown marginally fond of his ally, marginally perhaps being too soft a word to describe their bond. _Friend. _Yes, that was it. But he couldn't afford such a feeling when it came to holding out hope for his own wellbeing.

She was strong. He was strong. Both with high enough scores, without an ally outside of their formidable pairing, with nothing holding them back.

Gwilym thought of Delora. Fira thought of Emigdio. They had their District partners. They had some sense of loyalty to those from their home. But right now, with the impending bloodbath coming closer and closer, a devil on the horizon, it was Fira and Gwilym. Nobody else.

That was the way it had to be.

As one hovercraft carried half of the team from District Twelve to their future, the other held Delora, alongside her ally from Six.

Neither paid much attention to the other, except for rare sideways glances, over in a flash. Delora blamed herself for Amaya's distance. Somewhere along the brief line that they'd known each other, there had to have been a point where she'd done – or said – something wrong.

That was usually what always happened. Maybe that was why she had pushed them so much through training and the interviews. As long as she felt like she was doing _something _competent, leading her allies to achieve what had to be achieved, then she had her place and she was ensuring she was the one fighting for her own life.

Because even though she had an alliance, a group around her, Delora never liked to feel as if she lacked control. With support, she had a chance. And maybe even without support, later on, she had the same chance. But still, she couldn't help but feel that something wasn't working, a cog in the system gone astray. She was envious of the bonds certain members of her alliance had made. Andryn's exuberant attitude. Nevaeh and Audria. Even Amaya's sharp, intuitive perspective on the alliance.

She wished the group was as strong as she'd liked to have believed. If it wasn't, it was either her fault, or someone else's, which in turn also made it hers as well.

Regardless, she would still try for her sake and theirs. That was all she could do. And when the inevitable happened, Delora couldn't focus on whether what she was doing was right or wrong, because they would no longer exist; two meaningless ideals only the uninitiated held onto.

She had to survive. And sometimes that meant doing bad things.

It meant having to change.

The girl from Six glanced up and failed to ignore the look of distant sadness in Delora's eyes. Amaya knew there was something in her, something she was holding back, a secret hidden behind her act of leadership. Whether it would hurt their alliance or not, Amaya wasn't so sure.

Still, it was better to be cautious. If she was wrong, then whatever happened would have had to have happened anyway. And if she was right, then it was one obstacle down, one potential mishap avoided.

Now she was headed to a place where she didn't have to pretend. Now she just had to fight, keep her eyes on the path she had to take, and do whatever had to be done to reach its end.

Any distraction, even her alliance potentially, would have to be dealt with.

Eventually.

As the hovercraft slowly came to a standstill, Theon watched each of the tributes, how they reacted, the way they fearfully looked around their small enclosure, talking with allies, muttering to themselves, or staring petrified at the window which kept hidden the way forwards.

He was scared himself, on some level. Not to the point where he wasn't prepared, but still, he knew what the fluttering of his heart and the quickness of his breath meant.

This was it, really. Everything that had happened before the reaping, and what had transpired afterwards, would culminate into this one Arena. His actions would take him down a road that had to be walked. He was excited, worried, frightened, determined, and everything else meshed together into a thick, gloopy ball that was now his present self.

He wished maybe something had gone right during training to bring him closer with his allies. _Something. _But maybe that detachment was what he needed right now. Maybe he didn't need to force himself so hard when really, at the end of the day, if he wanted to win they had to die anyway.

It was easier said than done, of course, trying not to feel hurt. Trying to pretend. He hadn't made it easy, acting like a total tool, leering in the shadows. It was hard to become someone he wasn't for the sake of other people's sensitivity. But right now, once the bloodbath began, he had to focus on doing what any Career had to do and move on with it.

The past was the past. Now it was time to worry about the future.

As the tributes were collected together in a huddle, free from their claustrophobic cage in the form of a hovercraft, Hale and Cade shared a frantic glance at one another when the Peacekeepers swept towards them. A tidal wave of oppressive authority.

Cade tried to call something out to his older ally, something reassuring, a joke to calm the mood. But with this sea of noise, nothing could be heard over the footsteps and the other tributes, moving for their future.

Maybe it was for the best. Right now it was probably more important to calm himself down than his ally. Hale was competent enough. In some weird way, he was a fighter, a nerdy, blissfully idealistic fighter, but a fighter nonetheless. He fought for what he believed in. Cade was someone that he was close to, someone he would surely stand by, no matter the circumstances.

Likewise, the boy from Six was loyal. He would stand by his ally.

Whether he was short or tall, young or old, it came down to how someone adapted once in the Arena, how they took the situation and ran with it. Cade was prepared.

Hale, walking down another corridor of the complex, tried his absolute best to do the same.

He thought back on all those books he'd read. The words, the knowledge, seeping through from something so delicate as a page, with text printed down it. Then there was Cade, even Petra, who he had spoken to once. He was now headed to a place where he couldn't always believe in the good, a place riddled with despair and evil, but with Cade, he almost felt like he could do anything.

As long they had each other, maybe today they actually had a chance.

Further down the same corridor, Nevaeh was pushed into the room and struggled to maintain her balance. Quickly, as she started to stumble over, her stylist caught her and laughed sadly, straightening her out.

"Well that was close."

Nevaeh nodded. Right now, even the lightest, most brightest voice, left nothing but thin, shaking patches of dark grey. For the first time in a long time, the colours didn't settle her nerves, or make her feel better.

She'd wanted to be strong. And even when she had given it her all, the Gamemakers had only rewarded her a three. If that was all she could amount to, all her determination meant in the eyes of the Capitol, some part of her told her to give up, and another told her to prove them all wrong.

Right now, in mere minutes, Nevaeh had to decide which side would win out. She focused on Audria. On Delora. On Andryn and on Amaya. Her allies and her friends. If she gave up, even if she had only limited strength, they might suffer for her uselessness.

And her father… if she died… _no._

She lifted her chin and smiled when she met her stylist's eyes.

"I'm ready."

In the room on Nevaeh's left, Emigdio was finally greeted with the outfit that the tributes would be wearing for the duration of the Games.

First, he stripped down and pulled a white vest top over his torso. It was tight, covering his chest and stomach, but he bit his lip and said nothing as another, thicker black garment with long sleeves, was pulled over his body.

"Is that al-"

He was cut off when yet another jacket was pulled out. This time it was green, with blotches of black. His stylist said it was designed to keep out water and the cold as he helped Emigdio pull his arms through the thick material.

It was baggy, long-sleeved, yet oddly comforting. Not much protection, but it was still something.

"A minute to go," his stylist said, as he helped him into the rest of the outfit.

Emigdio wasn't sure what else he could say. Instead he opted for a curt nod. His bottom lip was on the verge of bleeding from the way he continued to anxiously chew away at it, pouring all his worry into the movement of his teeth.

He knew his wife wouldn't let his children see what was about to happen. But that didn't make it any easier. The man that would rise from the tube and fight in the Games would be the man he would have to live with. If he… killed…. if he did such a thing, then he would have to live knowing he'd taken the lives of other people's children, all in the hope of returning to his own.

"You can't dwell on that."

He looked up at his stylist, as if he could read his mind.

"What?"

"You have your alliance, people you need to protect. And you have your family. That's what you have to focus on."

He didn't know what to say. So he said nothing. But the man was right. And above all else, he had himself. His own life to save. Come what may, he had to do what any tribute was prepared to face in the Arena.

This was not the day he died. It couldn't be.

Barnaby was trying his best to think the same way. _Trying. _Sadly, it wasn't as easy.

It was absurd. The idea that above ground, he might be forced to kill, or maybe… possibly, even die. And yet seconds ago, he had been forced into yet more clothes, as if that was all the Capitol cared about.

The outfit was huge on him. It had been tailored for his size but it still hung heavy over his small stature. The pants were the same blotchy black and dark green colour, with a belt to help keep it all together. And the boots, though his size, were still huge leathery things that hardly did anything to conceal sound when he tried to walk quietly around the room.

His stylist had said something about how they were designed for harsh weather, not for stealth. Still, that didn't help Barnaby. All he really had going for him was his size. And right now, it looked like his agility or possible attempts at running away somewhere in the future, wouldn't help him.

For the time being, however, it had to be about himself, Arick, Zeara and Travis. His sister's plan was now his own plan, his own destiny, but right now it crept away to the back of his mind. Instead, it was replaced with a sense of terror that accompanied him on his walk to the tube.

When it closed around him, he wiped away a tear and shook his head clear of all doubt. All he'd wanted was a simple life. Easy. Controlled. From one place to another. The same, repetitive lifestyle, nothing different, but that was alright because he liked repetitive. He liked knowing what was going to happen, day after day.

Now he didn't. Would he live, or would he die? It was up to him to take control and find out.

If he left it entirely to those he called allies, then what was he really doing for himself? Nothing. If he was weak, if he was nothing but a bloodbath waiting to happen, then he had to do whatever he could to show that maybe they didn't need to think that way.

Maybe, bizarrely, he did have a chance.

However small it might be.

The tubes ascended. Barnaby's thoughts were wiped clean, and up he went. Somewhere else, rising to the Arena, Romina balled her fingers into fists, unclenched them, and repeated the movement over and over.

_I'm a Career. I'm supposed to kill today. In a few minutes. That is who I am._

And yet, as she slowly continued to rise, something else, _someone _else, circled her mind. They expected her to be something against who she had always been. The background girl. The quiet girl. The peaceful girl. But also the girl that stood up for what she believed in.

If her allies wanted Romina to cast aside who she was, and be what the Games needed her to be, then maybe she had to find the in-between. Because she was here to win. She knew that meant she had to kill.

But that didn't mean she had to do it the way the Careers expected her to.

_There's another solution…_

She thought about the answer, when she finally reached the Arena, all twenty-four tributes slotting into place. There was another path that veered away from the Careers, potentially taking her towards her victory, or towards destruction.

Right now, she had to live up to her Career title. But soon… soon she would have to make a decision.

_Clear your mind and focus. Focus on the here and now, not what might be._

She was shrouded in darkness.

It was disorientating, but she took a deep breath, and nodded.

_Let the Games begin._

* * *

_**Who do you **__**think**__** will die in the bloodbath?**_

_**Who do you **__**want**__** to die in the bloodbath?**_

* * *

**I said it would be quick ;/**

**Yeah I got this done in one sitting because the style of it is just really easy to get into. Hopefully every tribute got at least a little mention. I keep a list as I write, but really, I've probably forgotten someone.**

**Anyway, up next is the bloodbath. I'll take this opportunity to thank everyone who submitted a tribute to this story, reads, reviews, whatever. Honestly, your support means a lot. And as much as I've enjoyed writing these tributes, starting from the next chapter they start to go. I hope no one takes it personally and understands why I might have chosen their tribute for the bloodbath, or whatever stage they die. You all knew the chances. Still, I'm sorry in advance. I'll miss each and every one of them!**

**Regarding this chapter, I know most people focus on the two questions. But if you could spare a comment or two on the actual content, that'd be great too. These are the tributes with their final pre-Games thoughts, it'll be nice to hear what you have to say :D**

**Up next: the Games ;O**


	19. The Way of the World

**Chapter Nineteen.**

* * *

**Bloodbath.**

* * *

The twenty-four pedestals froze in place.

Each and every tribute that stood atop one tried to focus in on where they were. At first, some of them thought it was a mistake. A glitch. Maybe the pedestals hadn't finished their journey upwards yet.

Only when nothing happened, and in the distance a foreboding, hammering of a countdown drilled into each of their ears, they knew this was it.

All twenty-four had been split into groups of three. Side by side, three tributes stood on their pedestals, with bits of rock and clumps of dirt surrounding them from behind, upwards, and below. They were in a cavernous sort of room, that stretched for a while ahead of them, a light – or something that was at least lighter than where they were currently stood – enticing them towards the end.

Eight tunnels. Twenty-four tributes, eight tunnels, three to each. And at the end, they all assumed the Cornucopia stood, drawing them in to its bounty. Weapons. Supplies. Everything they would need to survive.

Yet first they'd have to get there.

In the first tunnel, Delora tried her hardest to stop the quivering of her jaw, the chattering of her teeth in fear, the way her knees threatened to knock together as her stomach did somersaults. She was slap bang in the middle of Uriah and Diantha. Two Careers. _How is this fair…? _She wanted to cry. But she couldn't. She wouldn't. But above all, she refused to die. Not here. Not now.

In the second tunnel, Cade and Petra exchanged fearful smiles, the two twelve year olds, side by side. On the left, Andryn did her absolute best to do the same. The three of them continued to gaze at one another. None of them were allies. But none of them were killers. None of them had chosen to be here. It was safe to say there would be no fighting on their run to the Cornucopia, none whatsoever.

In the third tunnel, Theon set his eyes on the way forwards, not the two tributes that were stationed either side of him. He knew they were District partners. Hale and Clytie stared at one another; both in fear of the boy between them, but both somewhat at peace that at least they weren't alone. At least they had each other. Theon envied them of that. And then he cursed himself for thinking such a thing. This was the Games. They were his enemies. They had to die.

In the fourth tunnel, Gwilym repressed his desire to roll his eyes at the way the idiot from Seven seemed almost eager to jump into the arms of Arick, his ally. The two of them were on pedestals adjacent to one another. Arick tried to offer him a shaky smile, a comforting, motivational thumbs-up, but all Travis could do was beam back at him, overjoyed to be with his ally. Gwilym paid them no heed. His prize was out there. His ally. And then his journey to the very end of this game. It wouldn't be a picnic, that was for sure. But unlike these fools, maybe he had what it took. Maybe he could really do this.

In the fifth tunnel, Riena fought hard to hold back the pity she felt, wedged between two of the youngest competitors. Barnaby shook like a leaf on his pedestal, his steely gaze on the way front, trying to hide the tremble in his lip, and failing when Riena saw the fear so plain to see. On her right, Huxley did the same, but every second, his eyes would flit between the Career to his left, and the other boy on the far side. She seemed like one of the nicer Careers, if such a thing existed. Maybe if he was fast enough he could get out there before she tried to hurt him. And then he could find his allies, do his best, and survive. No longer would he be a burden. No longer would he hide in the shadows. This was where he took his stand. This was where he became a _someone._

In the sixth tunnel, the three tributes totally ignored one another. Amaya's eyes were set on front, on what awaited her out there, her allies, her chance, her everything hanging on a thin line between life and death. Zeara's thoughts were far too busy for her to pay any attention to the other two. _Arick, Travis and little Barnaby. _She wasn't much of a physical fighter, most of the time she simply stayed away from people. But now she had a group she cared about. Friends she had to look after. She'd be damned if she would let anything happen to them today. And then Phris. The only tribute this year without an alliance. He knew he was prepared to fight. Today. Not tomorrow. Today he would go out there, do what he had to do, and stand his ground. _I could die… _He wasn't afraid. He was ready. Prepared. With no one holding him back, maybe he had what it took. There was only one way to find out.

In the seventh tunnel, Audria felt like an ant waiting to be squashed. On her right, Emigdio stood, towering above her, all muscle and focus. His eyes were narrowed on the distant opening at the end of the tunnel, his legs ready to propel him forwards. And on her left, Audria felt even more intimidated by the presence of Alston, the boy who shared the highest training score, who had always seemed thrilled to be here, walking about like he owned the place. She wanted to cry. She wanted to faint and fall over and accept a merciful, quick death. But she couldn't. If there was one thing she'd promised herself, it was to never give up. She put herself down constantly, she hated her own existence, but that was her mind, her thoughts, her own fight against who she was. It was no one else's. And for as long as she still drew breath, no one would push her down and stop her from fighting for survival. This was the biggest fight she'd ever been in. She was terrified. But she was prepared. She was ready.

In the eighth and final tunnel, Romina's eyes nervously, and guiltily, continued to focus on the little girl from Five, quivering on her pedestal like a shaking leaf, waiting to be detached and thrown into the wind. Only there was also a determination in her stance. Her eyes were blown wide, her teeth gnawed fearfully on her bottom lip, but she didn't meet the Career girl's anxious gaze. Her friends were out there. And though she was weak, she could at least try, she could at least give it her all. Romina silently bowed her head in respect for her, and then looked over on her right at Fira, who stood tall, ready to accept her future for whatever it would become. Though she'd tried to live a purposeful life, filled with work, yet love for her family and friends, this was something she had no choice in, but had to comply with. She didn't want to be here as much as anyone else, but that didn't mean she would throw her hands down and give up. Everyone was watching. Everyone. Fira would not disappoint them.

With all twenty-four ready and waiting, the Cornucopia somewhere at the end of each of the eight tunnels, the countdown slowly reached its end.

_5… 4… 3… 2… 1…_

_0_

The gong sounded.

The Games had begun.

* * *

Delora didn't waste a moment. Uriah threw himself in her direction, fists out, ready to bring one crashing into her head. They had no weapons. Everything a tribute needed was on the outside. But they were Careers. Diantha and him, trained not just with blades and bows, but with fists, elbows, knees and feet.

However, Delora was no idiot. She knew what was coming. And she wasn't about to let either of them get the advantage.

His attempt to bring her down nearly drove him to punch Diantha square in the face instead. Delora ducked, swivelled around, and propelled herself from the rim of the pedestal, her feet taking her in a sprint down the tunnel.

"Great job," Diantha rolled her eyes.

Uriah, for once, said nothing. Whether it was because he had nothing to say, or because of what he could hear happening, he wasn't sure. With Delora a quarter of the way down the tunnel, a tremble ran up the side, arching above their heads, shaking the earth at the very back.

"Um… Uriah…" Diantha's eyes went wide, settling on a crack in the stone above her head. "RUN!"

The second the two Careers bolted forwards, hot on Delora's tail, the earth around them started to fall in, filling the tunnel completely.

It was happening all over. Andryn, Petra and Cade were doing the best they could to help one another forwards, avoiding the cave-in, waiting to suffocate anyone that wasn't fast enough. Phris thought of Audria for a brief second, a momentary blip of sadness in his otherwise stoic, uncaring heart. When he shook that away, he paid no attention to either of the tributes behind him, and continued sprinting forwards.

Alston had wanted to take this opportunity to get rid of Emigdio once and for all. But he knew the smartest thing was to wait and not choke to death on dust and stone. Instead, he ran straight ahead, faster than both Emigdio and Audria, headed for the end of the tunnel.

Everywhere chaos had already unleashed itself. The Gamemakers had kick-started everyone into action, driving them onwards, giving them no choice but to run, run, _run_.

Hale had tears in his eyes. It wasn't from sadness, or fear, or anything of the sort. The very air around him was filling up with the tunnel's structure. He wiped away the dirt on his face clumsily with the back of his hand. Clytie tried to help him along, but one shake of the earth threw her forwards.

"I'm sorry…" she buckled down and ran as fast as she could, towards the end of the tunnel.

Finally the tributes started to break free of confinement and sprint out from the Gamemaker's first trick.

Theon paused. The eight tunnels were based into the very bottom right corner of the Arena, four of them going north along the edge, four of them east. They were confined to a relatively small patch of land. Ahead of them, in the very centre of this new area, the Cornucopia stood, tall, golden and proud.

Beyond this square of earth and grass and tunnel entrances, the Arena seemed to fall lower in the ground. Whatever it was, he couldn't see from this angle. What his eyes did focus on, however, were small metal circles, embedded into the grass, dotted around the Cornucopia.

They were visible, and though there weren't too many of them, the beeping, flashing red light atop each of them made it clear what they were…

_Mines._

Theon inhaled, closed his eyes, and exhaled. At that exact point in time, having been faster than Hale, yet slower than Clytie, the boy from Nine ran straight past him, faltering for a second, before heading for the Cornucopia.

_You're a Career. _Theon looked at the boy's back, an innocent kid from Nine, someone that hadn't chosen this. _Be a Career._

He ran after him. It took maybe five or so seconds for Theon to be right behind Hale. He had a choice. A choice that had to be made.

Hale looked over his shoulder, blinked, then nearly fainted in fear and shock. In that moment, Theon repressed his guilt, swallowed down regret, and grabbed onto the back of the boy's jacket.

"I'm so sorry…"

Theon's usual smile and outward confidence fell to pieces as he swayed the boy left, swayed him right, and then let him go, the momentum carrying him sideways.

Out the corner of his eye, Theon watched as the terrified boy screamed his ally's name, closed his eyes in terror, and blew to pieces as his body made contact with a mine.

Blood, bone, skin and organ splattered out as Hale Cheshire became the first casualty of the Seventieth Hunger Games. A piece of sharp metal whizzed through the sky, shrapnel from the mine, and pierced into Theon's shoulder.

He let out a cry, pulled the metal free, gazed once more at the smoky ruin of what had been a living, breathing person, and ran towards the Cornucopia.

_I'm sorry._

Meanwhile, with all the tributes now free of the tunnels, utter pandemonium had erupted as the tributes dodged the mines, and tried to make it to the centre. They weren't sure of what awaited them past this little patch of land; none had no clue of what the Arena actually was. No one cared.

Every tribute was focused entirely on staying alive. With adrenaline like fire in their veins, they had one purpose and one purpose only: to survive.

Uriah was still trying to shake the momentary crack in his confidence at having failed back in the tunnel. It wasn't a big thing, yet for someone that had been so sure of himself, it was almost like the very blow he'd tried to deliver, pummelling him in the gut. Nevertheless, with tributes to his right, to his left, behind him, and in front, he had a job to do.

Diantha had split off from him and high-tailed it for the Cornucopia. Uriah followed on and quickly found himself with weapons aplenty, stacked and littered around him.

"Remember," Diantha said, muscles tensed, all sign of joy and laughter drained from her face. "Make it quick. Don't let them suffer."

Uriah nodded. He wasn't in this for the fun of actually killing. But that wouldn't stop him from following through and doing what had to be done. "Aye aye commander." He saluted, grinned, and grabbed onto a weapon by his feet.

Alston, Riena, Romina and Theon were gathered on the other side of the Cornucopia, closer to the mouth, where boxes and backpacks and everything they could ever need were bundled up, ready to be used by the most willing of fighters.

Romina looked at her District partner and frowned. Something was up. He winced when he touched his shoulder and tried to distract himself by shaking the dirt free from his hair.

Still, Romina was no idiot. The blood that had doused one side of him made it clear that one of these mines had been activated. Something told her it hadn't been by accident.

"Diantha and Uriah seem to already be out there," Riena said, taking control. "We split up, cover as much ground as we can, and take out whoever is easiest to get to. No playing the idiot. No setting your sights on someone that is either too far away, has back-up, or could put up a fight that would be too costly. Be smart about it. Think things through."

Alston, Romina and Theon looked at her, silence rippled through the air, before Alston grinned, grabbed onto a belt of throwing knives, a spear, and jogged away.

Theon was next. Which left Romina, staring at Riena.

She seemed composed, outwardly responsible, but inwardly Romina knew Riena well enough to tell this was eating her up inside. Training was one thing. The real deal was another.

"You can stick with me," Riena tried to smile, "if you like."

Romina couldn't quite find her tongue. But with a nod and her own twitch of a grin, the two Career girls set off, ready to continue with the bloodbath.

Heading into the chaos surrounding the Cornucopia, Huxley was jumping over mines, searching for supplies hidden in the grass, and doing his hardest to stay away from anyone that wasn't an ally.

_They've made the mines extremely clear to see… and there aren't too many… not enough to kill us at random… _Huxley knew it was a blessing. If deadly explosions could be counted as such. So many would already be dead if the Gamemakers had buried them under earth and left everything to random, bloody chance.

Thankfully, they hadn't. This was only something they'd done for extra fun. The added entertainment of tributes, not only having to worry about other, breathing humans, but the very ground itself.

He tried to shove those thoughts to the back of his head and focus entirely on what he had to do. Find his allies. Emigdio, Clytie and Petra had to be out here somewhere. The sky was dark enough, with rain slowly starting to pelt the grass, mixing everything with mud. As it slowly got harder, obscuring vision, Huxley did his best to remain as composed as he could, and set out forwards.

At that exact moment, over the sounds of so many running footsteps, he heard a slower set, more focused, more in tune to something… or someone.

_Or me._

He swivelled round and ducked at the exact time a weapon came slicing at his face.

_Oh crap… ohcrapohcrapohcrap. _He turned around, tears in his eyes, as the fear erupted out from him, stripping apart the side of himself that had tried to be confident today, and sprinted in the mud.

For a second, he thought maybe they had gone. Maybe they'd found someone else.

_Wishful thinking. It never works._

Something similar to a chain wrapped round his legs, bringing him down into the mud, his face completely covered in grass and dirt that made him choke out and sob into the ground.

He tried to turn over. Squirming left and right, he rolled onto his back and stared into the eyes of Uriah Valore, the District Two Male.

"Chain-scythe, quite practical really." He walked up to Huxley, crying in the mud, and unwrapped the blade from round his legs. "If it's any consolation, I do apologise. It's not me trying to be a dick – although, well, I guess from your perspective I must look like the god of all douches. One dickhead to rule them all. Er… yeah. Anyway…" He put his foot onto Huxley's stomach, holding him down. "I am sorry." And then the blade went through his neck, right into his throat, and the boy from Three fell still.

The second tribute to die.

As Uriah left the scene, a few metres away, sloshing about in the rain, Cade tried his hardest to keep balance in the mud. Luckily the boots were doing wonders in terms of not falling flat on his ass. Still, it was annoying. More than annoying.

Behind him, Phris Cantle was steadily catching up. He was persistent. The moment he'd seen Cade trying to scoop up a backpack from the grass, he'd narrowed his eyes, set sights on becoming a killer so early, and ran after him.

At least Cade was fast. They weaved around mines, supplies and tributes alike, left and right, a game of cat and mouse through the rain and mud.

_Hale… where are you?! _If he was a complete idiot, he might have shouted out his ally's name. Right now, he only had the attention of one brute. He didn't quite feel like attracting more to this game of chase.

A very deadly game of chase.

Behind him, Phris held onto the sword tight in his hands, backpack hooked round his shoulders. He could set off now. There was nothing holding him back. No allies to find. But he'd been told, urged by his mentor, escort and even stylist, to fulfil the role of a tribute that the Capitol would bet on.

And that meant killing. Eighteen year old Careers, all the way down to twelve year old little kids from District Six.

Age didn't matter. It had to be done.

And yet he was awfully sly the little brat, ducking when Phris almost caught up and slashing at his neck, drawing the chase towards a mine, hoping to catch Phris off guard and blow him up. He had no such luck, but still, Phris almost respected him for how far he was willing to take this.

_How far am I, though? Clearly all the way… clearly to his death._

However, Cade wasn't quite so eager to give up his life just yet. Finding Hale and focusing on his own survival continued to rage about his head, one side telling him to go back, the other telling him to go forward. Maybe they would find each other later on. Maybe… maybe they would see each other soon.

He had to survive, right now. He had to survive so he could fight another day.

A few more metres headed north and Cade finally reached the edge of the Cornucopia area. The ground dipped into a maze of trenches, twisting left and right as far as the eye could see.

_Well… here goes nothing. _Cade looked over his shoulder, winked at Phris, and jumped down, sprinting deeper into the Arena.

With Cade out of sight, Phris turned around and headed for the Cornucopia. Maybe it was time to leave, maybe it was time to save the fight and survive for now. He wasn't sure.

For now, he carried on.

Further on, nearer to the Cornucopia, Alston was running wild, spear in hand, belt tightened over his shoulder, diagonally going back to his waist so he had easy access to the knives.

The thrill was more in not knowing what would happen than actually hunting the tributes. Still, it had to be done. He had done his best to have no qualms about the actions he would have to take and that wouldn't start now.

The rain was a nuisance that was obscuring the tributes, like fleeing mice, grabbing supplies, fighting, running, slipping and sliding. Alston sighed and continued onwards. His real game began within the Career alliance. These other tributes were more on the outside, people he didn't know, people he didn't want to know, and people that had to die for him to win.

His fellow allies, however…

He didn't hate them. He couldn't say he exactly liked them either. But for what they stood for, he buckled down, held his head high, and ran as fast as he could through the rain.

On the go, he unclipped a knife from his belt and held it steady in his hand. One wrong movement he'd lose a weapon, a weapon that could be saved and used for later. In this rain, there was no chance he'd find it, especially as he had to ensure he didn't accidentally step on a mine.

_Bloody Gamemakers._

He cursed under his breath, tried to smile again, and caught sight of a girl with dark hair, bent down in the grass, shoving things into a backpack hurriedly, eyes perfectly on the front. With no idea what was creeping up on her, what could be lurking in the rain, it was sort of her fault.

Sort of. Really, it was the Capitol's. And right now, it was Alston's.

But it was better to deflect blame than deal with nuisances such as guilt and regret. Especially with what he was about to do. She still continued to remain oblivious. Unaware of danger. And as she slowly rose, turned around, Amaya Devlin, so determined to flee her alliance, flee what would have happened to their group if given enough time, had no defence to block the knife that came hurtling through the air.

Alston grimaced at the noise it made, slicing into her skull, embedding itself between her eyes and bringing her crashing to the grass. Worse was the noise when he pulled it out, wiped it on his jacket, and turned to go, leaving the corpse to be collected later on.

A second ago, a girl that was trying to win. And now, nothing but another dead tribute.

_This is the way of the Games… _Alston thought. _It's the way it has been, is now, and always will be… and I'm not about to change that…_

He persevered, clipped the knife back to his belt, and ran on. There were more tributes to kill. This was the way of the Career. The way of the world.

Emigdio watched with disgust and loathing in his eyes as Alston left the poor girl dead in the grass. There was nothing he could do. He didn't know her. Had never said a word to her. As much as it pained him to do so, he turned and ran the opposite direction.

His main priority was to find his friends. After that, they would gather up supplies, and run. _In and out. _That had been the plan. It was still the plan.

He ducked as an arrow came soaring through the sky, straight for his shoulder. When he glanced back up, whoever had shot it was gone. Maybe it hadn't been for him. Whoever had pulled the string and let it loose had probably hoped it would someone, and left the moment it hadn't.

Death was constantly bearing down on Emigdio, filling him up with fear, even when he tried his hardest to remain composed. There had been an explosion almost straight after he'd left the tunnel. That was when he'd seen the mines.

Some poor tribute had obviously stood on one. At least one tribute was already dead.

_Huxley, Petra, Clytie… _It wouldn't be them. It couldn't.

Before he could continue his search, the very ground itself fell from below his feet. Emigdio's shout was cut short when his jaw went smacking into the earth. He groaned in pain and rolled over onto his back, spitting out a bloody tooth, feeling around with his tongue at the mess that had become his bottom lip.

He was about to swear when his eyes settled on someone walking closer. _Oh shit… _Back in the Capitol it was easier to simply be angry at the Careers, than actually fear them. Now, with one literally coming here to kill him, the anger was wiped clean, and replaced with dread and terror, settling in his gut.

"I seem to be doing this a lot, y'know, apologising. About what I said yesterday at the interview, I know you wouldn't really lie about having kids-"

"Shut it," Emigdio growled, squirming in the mud.

Whatever weapon Uriah had in his hand, it had wrapped a chain round his legs and left him hopeless in the ground. When he tried to lean down and pull it away with his hand, Uriah sprinted forwards and kicked him backwards.

"Nu-uh. You're the biggest threat out here. Can't be letting you go, can we?"

"I don't know," Emigdio spat out a wad of blood, groaning, "can you?"

He seemed to think about it for a second. But when he shook his head and frowned, Emigdio's terror shot straight back up, leaving his heart pounding against his ribcage, at such a rate he was scared it might shatter straight through.

His arms searched through the mud. Left and right, cutting open on bits of stone and rock, as Uriah started to unwind the chain and bring up the blade.

_No… not fucking now… no. _He thought of his kids. Then of his friends. Then of himself. _Himself. _Right now, it wasn't his kids about to be killed, or Huxley, Petra and Clytie. It was Emigdio Santiago, tribute from District Eleven, about to be fucking murdered by a sick, twisted killer from District Two.

His hand found something.

Uriah bent down, lowered the blade, and as he went to strike, the blind fool didn't see it coming.

It was a backpack. Something was in it, that was for sure. The second it collided with Uriah's face, hooking him in the jaw, Emigdio swept his leg out, tripping him up, and switched positions.

This time Uriah was in the mud and Emigdio had the chance. He could pick up the blade, cut open the moaning, dazed Career from Two, and claim a kill.

_But…_

He sighed. "I wouldn't. Not now. Maybe soon, maybe I'll have to. But not… not now…"

Emigdio left, running.

_Not now. But soon. Definitely soon._

If he wanted to live, he had to.

As Emigdio tried to search for his allies, Clytie was doing the exact same thing. Frantically running through the mud, she almost fell when her foot got caught in a backpack strap. Luckily she managed to hold herself upright and bent down, securing the supplies for herself and her friends instead.

She wanted to help them. It was hard in this torrential downpour, only getting worse and worse by the minute. But if she had supplies, and once she found them, together they at least had some kind of chance.

First though, the actual finding.

When she took another few steps forwards, though, apparently it wasn't as hard as she'd thought.

Petra was scrambling backwards in the mud. She was facing the direction of a frozen Clytie. Only they weren't alone. Between the two friends, another figure stood, advancing on the little girl, spear in hand.

_Oh no… _Clytie's eyes went wide. She had her back to Clytie; no idea she was here. Petra continued to slide backwards in the mud. But with every inch of distance she put between her and her would-be attacker, the girl with the spear closed that distance and advanced.

_What do I do? What do I do?!_

She had a backpack. With terrified tears in her eyes, Clytie searched through and pulled out the first thing her hand came into contact with.

When her eyes settled on it, however, her heart froze, blood ran cold, and the tears stopped.

_A knife._

Suddenly, the answer to what she had to do made itself one-hundred percent clear.

She looked at Petra, who finally caught sight of Clytie. Then she looked at the girl between them, unaware, yet still trying to kill her friend. All she'd wanted to do was find people she could enjoy her time with, fight with, be close with until maybe… probably… probably she did die.

And she'd found them.

Yet one was about to be killed right in front of her. Petra was about to be murdered.

With the tears starting to trickle back down her cheeks, yet fire burning in her gut, a powerful force to protect pushing her on, Clytie stabbed the girl through the back of the neck, killing her within seconds.

The moment the bloody knife left her fingers, landing on the girl's unmoving chest, the fire became extinguished, nothing but dying embers swirling in her stomach.

"I…" Clytie looked at the body, horror-struck, as Petra threw herself into her arms.

She ran her hand down the young girl's hair, embracing her in the rain, a corpse by their feet.

They looked up at the sound of footsteps and saw Emigdio, smiling at first, but freezing in his tracks when he caught sight of the body.

"Oh no… no… no… _please…"_

Something in his voice, as his eyes went between Clytie, blood on her fingers, and the body at her feet, made the entire air freeze over.

A chill ran down Clytie's spine as he turned the body over and was met with the distant, glossed-over stare of Fira Trevalle.

Emigdio's district partner.

Clytie was stunned to silence. In defending Petra, in saving her friend, Emigdio's friend, she'd taken the life of the girl from Eleven. A piece of Emigdio's home. A piece that was now lost.

"Emigdio… I'm so…" she reached out a hand.

Emigdio shook his head and stepped away. "I know. She was… she must have been…"

"She tried to hurt Petra," Clytie tried to make her voice sound stronger; louder. So it could be heard in this rain. "I couldn't let her…"

"I know," Emigdio couldn't meet her eyes, but he tried to smile, reaching out a hand to latch onto Clytie's. "I know."

Yet there was something in his voice, something that told Clytie otherwise. Something that had changed everything in such a short time.

"Where's Huxley?" Emigdio asked

Petra looked at the ground.

Clytie gasped, Emigdio froze, and Petra held back a sob. "I'm sorry… I saw… I saw his…"

There was nothing more that needed to be said. The three of them – friends, they called each other – ran through the rain, avoiding fights, dodging tribute and mines, as they headed for the trenches.

They'd lost someone. Clytie had killed. And Emigdio was now without his District partner.

Already, things had changed. Already, the Games had taken their toll.

Riena had watched the entire thing unfold. Romina was behind her back, panting, holding away a pain that tore through her side from running around, aimlessly.

As the three allies left the Arena, unaware that Gwilym had seen what they'd done metres away, abandoning the minefield at the same time and jumping into the trenches, Riena readied another arrow in her bow. So far she'd done alright avoiding facing the dead body of someone she'd killed. Shooting randomly into the rain and moving on had made this all so much easier.

Whether she'd taken a life, she'd never know. Not until she maybe returned. _When… when I return._

If there was one thing she wasn't about to let fall apart, it was her confidence in herself. Without that she'd be nothing. And right now, she had to be everything. For her sake and her alliance's.

"Do we keep going, or…"

Riena shushed Romina. A set of footsteps were nearby. Distant at first, muffled alongside so many other pounding sets of feet, running in the rain, but they grew nearer and nearer.

A girl sprinted straight past them, heading sideways, away from the Cornucopia, and closer towards someone she'd set her eyes on.

Riena didn't waste a single second. Career instinct took over and she let the arrow loose. A scream pierced the air as it hit whoever had fled.

The two Careers exchanged a panicked look, and moved forwards. Whoever it was, with drenched hair clinging to her scalp, and a backpack round one shoulder, pushed through them with the arrow embedded in her upper arm.

"Audria," Romina said, sadly. "Audria Kivare."

Riena didn't want to. The girl was running wildly, confused, in pain and fear. She was headed straight for the trenches, away from the Cornucopia and her allies, all sense of clarity forsaken for a need to survive and get away.

Only Riena couldn't let her get away.

She couldn't.

"Come on, we have to."

They took after her. A mouse backed into a corner proved a very fast, very frantic thing. Only this wasn't a mouse. And Riena would be damned if she would consider this girl anything less than who she actually was.

Though she was aiming to kill her, she was still a person. Not meat. Not a number on a tally. A girl.

The least she could do was remember her, when she did what she had to do.

"You don't have to watch if you don't want to," Riena whispered, nocking an arrow, pulling back the string, and watching Audria near the edge of the grass. "You don't have to."

Romina shook her head. "No. I'm a Career. You do what you have to do. I'll do the same."

Riena didn't say anything to that. With a nod, she let the arrow soar through the air and pierce Audria's back, straight through her ribs and into her heart.

The girl died midway through the air, flying forwards, over the edge, and into the trenches. Gone from view, Riena closed her eyes, lowered the bow, and opened them again, nodding.

"Let's go."

Another tribute down.

With two of her allies down and completely unaware that they were gone, Delora took a step back, moving for the Cornucopia.

She had been searching for them. However the moment the rain had started, everything had fallen into even more chaos. Instead, she'd opted to hunt for supplies, gather all she could, and find them afterwards.

That was what a good ally did. A good leader. And that was what she was. A leader to take charge and guide her friends out of the bloodbath and away from danger. It couldn't last, of course. And if she wanted to win, which she did, they had to die eventually.

But right now they didn't. Right now she had a job to do. A responsibility to fulfil. Save their lives, and save her own.

Right now, the saving her own took priority.

The very beginning of the Games had begun with Delora side by side with Diantha and Uriah. Now, as she backed up to the golden horn, the girl from Two had found her once again, sword in her hand, eyes set on Delora's face, not a single gap in her steely exterior to be seen.

Delora could run. She could. But that would mean having her back to an enemy that would easily stab it. If she was going to fight, she'd fight with some dignity. Some self-respect. And maybe… some stupid, foolish idea of hope, meant that she would survive.

Because she had to.

There was more that needed to be done. More she needed to do. More she needed to do and say back home. Today was not the day she died.

Delora had her own sword in hand. Though she had no idea how to really use one, whatever training she'd pulled together during her stay in the Capitol had to make do. She slashed at the open air, the two girls doused in rain, head to toe drenched to the very bone.

Her attack did nothing to intimidate Diantha.

In fact, it seemed to spur her on.

_Make the kill, _Diantha had said. _Quick and easy. _She owed the same to this girl from Twelve. It was time to get it over and done with.

The two girls lunged at the same time. The bitter sound of steel on steel rang through the air as both swords met. Delora knew she couldn't hold on forever. She kicked out, hitting Diantha straight in the knee, and when the Career buckled over, she pulled her sword back and jumped away just as she attempted to cut open her stomach.

Delora shook her head, gritted her teeth, and met her sword again.

This time, as Diantha stood tall and proud, two powerful girls from two very different worlds, locked in battle, Delora knew she couldn't hold out for much longer.

She pulled back, turned to avoid the blade, and cried out in complete agony when the sharp edge missed its intended target and sliced into her ear.

When she went to touch where it hurt, fire erupted in her veins when she realised her fingers found nothing but the wetness of blood.

_My ear… _Half of it was in the grass. _She actually… cut off… _Delora's stomach turned. Any other time, any other place, any other person, she might have fainted.

But sacrifices had to be made. Pain was an inevitable part of the Hunger Games. If she wanted to win, she'd have to go through so much more.

She hit away Diantha's next attempt at splitting her open, and ducked under, twisted out of reach, and switched positions. When she made the decision to run, before she could do so, two figures joined her, either side of their leader.

Nevaeh and Andryn.

_What a sight we must be… _Delora smiled, however, met each of their fiery gazes, both girls with a knife in hand, and locked onto Diantha's wavering stare.

"You can go. Or you can fight, probably win, but maybe not," Delora said.

Diantha frowned. She was a Career. It wouldn't be too hard taking out all three. But what was to stop one of them from getting her in the process. That would mean all four dead. All four, including her.

"Sorry about the ear..."

When Diantha ran away, Andryn raised an eyebrow, staring at Delora. "Ear? What does she mean ear?"

Delora showed them. In the heat of a fight, the pain had been washed away by adrenaline, but Nevaeh's gasp made her swivel round and face their youngest ally.

"We need to clean it up," Nevaeh said, holding onto Delora's hand. "Let's get out of here. I know Audria. I'm sure she's somewhere out there, waiting for us further on. And Amaya… they'll be okay."

Something told Delora otherwise. Something told her she'd already failed.

And yet she didn't say anything, instead choosing to carry on, maintain this false façade of optimism over their lives, and continued walking with her remaining allies by her side.

_Two down… and if I want to win, two to go… _

Delora knew this wouldn't be easy. Not one single bit.

With the three girls leaving the area surrounding the Cornucopia, the minefield was slowly emptying of tributes. Phris had given up, getting into a fight with Theon and leaving it when he knew he wouldn't be able to hold out.

Amongst the mines and supplies, however, Barnaby found himself stranded, lost near to the mouth of the Cornucopia. He'd vowed earlier, that if he was only destined to be a bloodbath, then he would go out knowing he'd done something to save his life. He would not just die the same boring, average Barnaby. He would not die weak and forgotten.

Yet without his allies, and with the Careers no doubt moving in, Barnaby found himself in a most precarious position, and it would only get worse the longer he waited.

When he stood up to go, grabbing onto his own set of supplies, a machete, and a knife he clipped to his belt, Barnaby heard the voices of the boys from One and Two, nearing the Cornucopia.

He trembled in fear. And yet, he refused to break down and simply die for their own amusement. Light on his feet, and as quick as he could, Barnaby darted away from the Cornucopia, hoping to bump into his allies, only to wind up crashing into the girls from One and Four.

"Oh…" Barnaby breathed out, fear clenching round his heart.

They blinked, staring at him, shocked. When Riena went to raise her bow, however, a will to survive kicked in and Barnaby pushed past.

At that moment, he saw them, Arick, Zeara and Travis, on the sidelines, coming straight for him.

They could have ran. Each of them had a weapon in hand, their own backpacks. Uniting and finding one another, Arick could have led the two of them away, abandoning Barnaby to his fate.

And yet they'd waited.

The boy he had to kill had waited.

"Quickly!" Zeara shouted, gesturing closer.

The Careers had grouped up behind them. He wasn't sure if it was all of them or only some, but Barnaby didn't waste a single second to look over his shoulder and find out.

The sound of their running footsteps stamping away in the mud told him all he needed to hear. They were coming. And they wanted to kill all four of them.

He thought for a brief moment, with the edge of the minefield just in front, that maybe they'd all make it. Hope, however small, was still hope. It existed.

Only hope didn't last long when shattered by the charging presence of the boy from Four, Theon Devalera, pushing his way into the alliance and splitting them up.

Barnaby was fast. He swerved around and joined up with Arick and Zeara at the front.

Travis wasn't so fast. He ended up dodging Theon's tackle, but moved behind him, with five other Careers advancing.

"GUYS!" He screamed, terror in his eyes. He tried to smile, the very same smile that had become what they'd recognised in their ally. But when Arick took a step forward, Zeara raised an arm to stop him, and Barnaby shook his head in their leader's direction, Travis' smile fell.

Theon mumbled an apology when he pushed Travis in the direction of his allies, building a distance between Arick, Zeara and Barnaby, and their opportunity to save him.

Only there was no decision. No choice to be made.

Each of them knew it was too late. Arick hated himself for it. He was a simple, stuttering fool trying to be more important than he really was. The Capitol had bought his pathetic act, but really, looking at him now, what was?

He was nothing.

Zeara hated herself as well. But she guided them away, eyes tearing up as Travis' screams rang out, hitting them in their backs, over and over, relentless.

The boy from Seven was stranded amongst the Career pack.

"PLEASE... WE'RE FRIENDS… PLEASE…!"

He was silenced by Alston, pushing the spearhead through his back and out his chest.

At that exact moment, as the cheerful, confident, proud to be alive boy from Seven, fell to the ground, six cannons shot through the sky.

The Careers retreated back to the Cornucopia. The rest of the tributes were scattered amongst the entry of the trenches, dealing with what they'd just been through.

The bloodbath was over.

Yet the Games had just begun.

* * *

_**Hale Cheshire, District Nine Male.**_

_**Huxley Cross, District Three Male.**_

_**Amaya Devlin, District Six Female.**_

_**Fira Trevalle, District Eleven Female.**_

_**Audria Kivare, District Ten Female.**_

_**Travis Sauver, District Seven Male.**_

* * *

**deathless, Halwen, Bo, Glimmer, Padraig and Olive. So… I'm sorry. Genuinely sorry. Hale was precious to me, honestly I rejected a fair few tributes I really liked because he had one of my all-time favourite personality types. Huxley was just adorable, adorable overload. Amaya and Audria, both important to the alliance, both insecure and hiding in their own way, but with different ideas on how to deal with it. And then Fira who was one of the stronger contenders really, willing to do what had to be done, without becoming too different to who she's always been. And of course Travis. Another adorable one. Annoying in real life, I'm sure, but writing him you kind of can't help but feel for the boy. And yeah, now he's gone along with everyone else. I really am sorry. I hope you might understand why I chose them, or at least don't hate me too much ;/ If you don't feel like sticking with the story, I also understand that. Still, thank you for submitting them. RIP to our bloodbaths!**

* * *

**Anyway everyone, that is the bloodbath!**

***hypocrite mode switched on* I do hate it when people go right to the end to see who died, but I like to put deaths at the bottom to make it 100% clear what has happened. So if you're the type to just skip, well you do you. If you aren't, then you do you and be your amazing self :)**

**I have no idea why this turned out to be just under 8,000 words. Honestly, no idea. Guess I had a lot to say. But with this being the bloodbath, I do hope you all enjoyed it. The Games have begun. Tributes have died. And yeah it's all sad, but I'm excited as well!**

**The blog will be updated with the deaths. Kills as well. So yeah check that out if you want.**

**Basically a little summary of the Arena. At the bottom right hand corner, a small square patch of land is where everyone started, basically a minefield with the Cornucopia in the centre. At the very bottom of this part, there were four tunnels. And on the right hand side, another four tunnels, which the Gamemakers caused to collapse at the very beginning. The rest of the Arena except for this little square of land which is elevated above the rest, is from what I mentioned this chapter, a maze-like network of trenches. It's raining. It's muddy. There are mines and all that shiz. Not the nicest place to be, but hey, it's the Hunger Games. **


	20. Sad Beginnings

**Chapter Twenty.**

* * *

**Day One.**

* * *

Everything was silent.

The Careers were the only group with a certain pep to their step. Neither of the six were particularly exhilarated by earlier events, but for an alliance whose primary function was to kill, none seemed to dwell for too long on what had happened so far.

Or, at least outwardly, their actions failed to reflect on what everyone but Diantha and Romina had done.

Alston, Riena, Uriah and Theon. They'd all killed. All done the deed. Fulfilled their role as a Career. Maybe even made someone at home proud of the fact they'd murdered an innocent child.

Diantha wasn't included in their deathly quartet; not yet anyway, unless her kill count included Delora's earlobe. She didn't seem to care what she'd done, but it still lay, useless, a floppy bit of dead tissue somewhere near the Cornucopia. Forgotten by no one but a pursed lipped, agonized Delora, somewhere within the confines of the trench system, lamenting over her premature injury.

The Careers, however, were too busy stacking up supplies, sorting out inventory, taking a tally, and doing everything but sitting down and planning the next step on their path onwards.

Riena was thankful the rain had fallen to a somewhat moderate pace. The clouds were spitting, rather than pouring. Her hair was in ruins, left drenched to her scalp, but unlike people she might have known back home who would have turned their noses up at messy roots, the problems Riena had with the rain were much more drastic.

Without proper vision, anyone could be lurking in the beyond. Or anything.

She swallowed her anxiousness down, stored her worry for a later day, and moved a heavy crate back to the side and rounded up a pile of food packets. They had enough within this golden bounty to last them the entirety of the Games. Or thereabouts.

A silent, tense atmosphere would remain fixated above their heads, a question of when, why and who in regards to how the first Career would fall. But for now they were content enough to act like nothing would go wrong.

For now, they were themselves. The people they had been at home, and in the Capitol.

For now Uriah, stood next to Alston, was perfectly happy to talk and talk and talk, unaware of the vein throbbing in his friend's forehead.

"So we're just going to leave the bodies… here..." Uriah's eyes darted over towards a bloody corpse, and then in the direction of charred chunks of District Nine somewhere nearer to the tunnel entrances, soaked in mud and gore. "Here… with us. Where we eat. Won't that, like, contaminate our bread or something?" He looked at Alston, as if it was the most important question anyone could ever have.

Alston smirked, shaking his head incredulously. "You know for a good looking guy, you've got the brains of a dead rat."

"I… don't know how to respond to that."

The boy from One shrugged, hooked a backpack further over his shoulder, and moved towards the Cornucopia. "Do with it what you will."

Before he could finish his trek over, carrying supplies that rattled around inside the blue bag he carried, Uriah dug his feet in the ground and laughed, nervously.

"Wait, er Alston, did you call me good looking?"

The two Careers exchanged a look. An awkward look.

Alston was quick to wave it away. "Objective observation. I'm sure certain people find you good looking. I don't." He looked around, at Diantha who he was sure might, or Romina, or Riena. Or someone. He laughed. "But people… in general… might…"

Uriah blinked. Alston coughed, did that funny little awkward movement with his arm behind his head, and grinned. Uriah blinked again.

Alston stood still. The others started to stare. And then Uriah opened his mouth again, voice about to pierce the silence around them, tense and atmospheric, and all awkwardness was forgotten.

"So what do we do with the dead bodies? I don't want corpse gunk in my sandwiches."

They were at the Cornucopia. Alston put the supplies he was carrying down, sighed comfortably, turned around, and prodded Uriah in the chest with his finger.

Uriah failed to ignore the flecks of blood just below his fingernail. Or the crimson splayed across his chest. Or what he could feel running down his own fingers, soon to dry and crack, permanently a part of who he was.

He shoved the thought away. He wasn't going to become_ that_ Career. The regret, the guilt, the whatever. He could apologise because he was sorry, but apart from that, what else did he have to say or do over the matter?

This was the Games. Killed or be killed.

It was in the rulebook. Learn it or die.

Alston prodded him again. "Have you actually ever watched a Hunger Games before, dingbat?"

"Of course," Uriah nodded, smiling proudly.

"Then tell me, what happens once the bloodbath is over, or later on when someone dies? What does the Capitol kindly do for us, the living, so our sandwiches aren't corrupted by _corpse gunk?"_

"They… oh…" Uriah paused, blushing.

"Oh indeed."

And as Uriah always did, he puffed out his chest, shook his head, and started to pout as if Alston was in the wrong. Because Uriah couldn't be.

"Well I'm sorry. I was just looking out for our sandwiches."

"I'll tell them to say thank you."

Once Alston had walked away, leaving Uriah standing stock-still in the gentle rain tapping against his muddy, bloody face, he started to walk towards Romina, Riena and Diantha.

When he sat down, movement behind him made him jump up, and Theon hopped down to sit on a crate to his right. He seemed all smiles and happiness. Uriah didn't know his fellow ally all that well. The thought might have scared him if he cared all that much. However right now, really, with the bloodbath over, all Uriah could hear was his stomach growling.

"I'm hungry," he said.

Theon laughed, the wound on his arm acted as a painful distraction, but laughing came easy. "Girls…"

Romina didn't say anything. Which surprised Theon. He would always crack a joke and she'd practically spit fire. Only this time the inner dragon had swallowed the flames down and instead glared into the mud.

Riena turned to Uriah and frowned. Before smiling. Before frowning again.

"If you want something to eat, go through some of the other boxes. We're trying to sift through the supplies we want to save in case something bad happens."

Theon leaned back and rested his head against the Cornucopia. It was cold and wet and disgusting, its golden sheen practically destroyed, leaving him with half a mind to pull away. But he'd already taken position. His pride stopped him from sitting forwards.

"It's the Games, Ri'. We're not here for a good time," Theon said, winking.

"Aren't we?" Diantha raised an eyebrow. "Depends on your definition of good."

"Or time," Uriah added.

They all stared at him.

"Come again?" Theon asked.

Uriah sat, undeterred. "It depends on your definition of good… and your definition of… time…"

Romina giggled behind her hand. When she realised that she was surrounded by dead people, she realised maybe it wasn't the best time and lowered her gaze again, stifling her laughter in a shroud of melancholia.

Riena didn't seem to mind brightening things up a bit. It was easier to store away worry and anxiety if she could at least crack a smile. When the situation was right, of course. No harm would come from enjoying something right now.

"I think everyone has the same definition of the word time, Uriah. But sure," she nodded, picking up a box and passing it over, "I get what you're trying to say."

Uriah smiled and blinked at the box. "And what am I supposed to do with this?"

"This is the food you can pig out on to your heart's content," Diantha said, interrupting Riena. "Go crazy."

Whilst Theon and Uriah tore into cheese, bread, crackers, fruit and strips of meet, Riena looked up and beckoned Alston closer.

She wondered what he was thinking, behind those perfectly cheerful, somewhat mysterious eyes. A strategy, maybe? Not that she could blame him.

Everyone needed some kind of plan within a plan. Otherwise there was no hope.

When he caught on and moved closer, Riena nudged Romina, glanced at Diantha, and smiled. In a small huddle, with two of their members half listening, half gorging on supplies they could waste, Riena lowered her grin.

"Tonight we're set. We've all seen how it goes. Sometimes there's a little mix-up. A random mutt attack. Or maybe a shake around with the Arena. But usually we're allowed to stay here, gather our bearings, and talk it through for one night."

They were all nodding, listening to what she had to say. Diantha knew she wasn't typically one to follow someone she deemed incompetent. And though maybe bonds were starting to build, and her effectiveness as the glue between them all was fading, she could see the merit following Riena might have on the longevity of her life.

So she listened and stayed quiet. Something miraculously Uriah managed to do also.

"Tomorrow though is a different story."

"I'm guessing you mean we…" Uriah raised a finger, swallowing a handful of raisins, turning to stare at Riena.

She nodded. "We go out there, we map the Arena, work out where we're going, who is where, maybe not attack certain tributes, but make our mark and do what has to be done. If we go in blindly and fight off at random, we could die."

"You don't sound so confident about our combined skills," Alston said, smirking.

"Oh I'm confident alright. But I'm also confident that at least five of us will, no matter what happens, die before this all comes to an end. And I'd rather prolong that inevitability for as long as I can. It's a labyrinth in there. We don't know what the others might have planned for our arrival."

Riena took a deep breath and sighed. "They're trying to kill us because we're trying to kill them. That's how it works. So that's what we do. But at the right time and the right place. We play things smart, or we end up dead. It's your choice."

Silence between the Careers. Total, hypnotic silence.

Then Theon lowered his hand, dropped the piece of bread clutched between his fingers, and nodded. "Tomorrow?"

Riena met his gaze, eyes determined, her resolve fixated on the long term. "Tomorrow." She didn't frown. But neither did she smile.

"Tomorrow we hunt."

* * *

Gwilym gazed up at the barbed wire.

The only line that was free of this entanglement happened to be the edge of the trenches. From down here, with the sides built up, pressed into the earth and stone, with sandbags and all sorts holding it together, Gwilym couldn't see anything of the above surface.

But what he knew of the minefield made him nervous. Maybe nervous wasn't the right word. Maybe he didn't know the word. It was hard for Gwilym to truly structure his emotions together and pin down exactly what he felt.

He looked over his shoulder. If he went forwards, he'd then come to a junction. If he went south, he'd come to a junction. Left, right, up, down. Wherever he went, there was another decision to make, another twist, another turn, on and on and on.

The one thing he wasn't about to do, not here, not now, not ever, was panic. He took a deep breath, hoisted the backpack further over his shoulder, and exhaled.

Up above, Fira's dead body lay, bloody, lifeless, an empty shell where there had once been a… remarkable girl. Because, in some twisted sense of irony, rather than bottle up how he really felt for his own wellbeing like he'd always done, Gwilym now saw her for what she really was.

Her death made Gwilym close his eyes and clench his empty fist. She wasn't just an ally. She was a friend who knew what she was doing. Together, maybe somewhere along the bumpy road, they'd have had to have butt heads eventually. But that was eventually. That was always somewhere in the future.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. They'd laid so many plans. Fira's death in the bloodbath wasn't one. They'd been so arrogant. Fira dying so early was supposed to have been _impossible. _

He took a step forwards, boot sinking into a clump of mud, and stopped in his tracks. This way, he wasn't sure what was awaiting him, a whole manner of unknown tricks and traps somewhere down the line.

He turned to look over his shoulder. _Down there…_

The girl that killed his ally, the girl that was allied with his friend's District partner, and the small girl Fira had decided to take out, they had headed for whatever lay waiting further on in the trenches.

Gwilym wasn't an idiot. The last thing he needed right now was some petty mission of vengeance that would get him killed. If there was one thing he could use Fira's memory for, the purpose she strove to fulfil, was to fight, win and simply survive for the two of them.

He wasn't just carrying the burden of his own life now; he was holding Fira's unfilled potential on his shoulders. The two of them were still in this together. Sadly, it just so happened only one of them was still alive.

When he ignored the foreign feeling in his gut, urging him on with anger and revenge, towards the girl that had killed his District partner, Gwilym continued to walk, away from temptation.

He knew what he had to do.

Somewhere down the line, the alliance of Emigdio, Clytie and Petra, forgotten at first, but now proving how strong they were, would have to be defeated.

Delora was out there. Somewhere with her own alliance.

They'd had an arrangement of sorts. Maybe with her, if he could find her location and team up with her, they could grow strong, wait it out, and eventually target one of the strongest alliances left surviving in this Arena.

He nodded to himself, a new purpose set in his heart, and started to journey into the trenches.

He tried to ignore the real reason he wanted Emigdio, Clytie and Petra dead. He tried to ignore the way his heart ached in his chest, the way his stomach turned, the way his throat seemed to close up and eyes threatened to burn.

They were all after effects of the bloodbath. A shock to his system.

They couldn't mean anything more.

If they did, Gwilym was in trouble. He'd lose focus, lose this sense of detachment he'd needed to survive; he'd lose everything that had gotten him to this point.

He would die. And that wasn't something he was willing to accept.

Not now, not ever.

* * *

"We… need… to… stop…"

Zeara reached out and held onto the edge of the trench, falling to a halt, her breath coming out in small clouds of mist around her lips, harsh and fast.

The three of them hadn't stopped running since the end of the bloodbath. Arick looked between the two of them. He almost felt guilty that his past in Eight, what he'd been moulded into doing, had given him a boost in stamina.

A tingle of pain in his side and that was it.

Barnaby's cheeks were flushed red. Zeara started to slip as the rain turned the wall of the trench into a thick slab of sloppy mud. Arick stepped forward and helped her balance out.

When they stared at one another, he was the first to lower his gaze.

"He's dead…" Arick didn't know how to cope with the feeling. But he knew he was sad. Sad beyond belief. "He's dead because we left him…"

"Arick," Zeara said, clicking her fingers in front of his eyes. "Arick!"

He looked up, glancing over at a nervous Barnaby, before staring into the teary eyes of Zeara. She always tried to be so strong. All her life, from one place to another, admitting weakness was as if she was letting someone into a side of her life that she refused anyone to see.

Yet with Arick, Barnaby and… Travis. Well, the door had started to open, and she couldn't let it close.

"We left him," Zeara's hand went to his shoulder. "We left him and I hate myself, but… it was either him, or all of us. They had him surrounded."

"I wanted to go back to him."

"And you would have been killed. I would have been killed. Barnaby would have been killed!"

Arick once again looked at their youngest ally. His lip was trembling. Something in his eyes made him look so guilty, so full of regret and the same sadness that ravaged through Arick.

"You look to me, you all looked to me as the leader of this group. And I- I'm not exactly… well I try to be, I try for all our sakes to be the person you want me to be, and it's hard, it's more than hard… but… but someone I cared about… he was screaming for us… screaming _my _name, your name, and we just… ran away…"

Arick's voice wavered in pitch, before his throat let out, words failed him, and his clenched fist slammed into the mud by Zeara's head. He felt tears in the corners of his eyes. Arick looked up, pain shooting up his arm as he pulled away, blood welling up on his knuckles.

But the one thing he felt above the pain and all else, beyond the agony Travis' death left him in, was Zeara's hand as it clung to his, fingers interlocking with his own.

"We look to you as our leader because you're a fighter," Zeara gazed up at the sky, her eyes homing in on something, before she stared back at Arick. _Please… please Arick. For your sake, above all else. Be the fighter they believe you are. That everyone believes you are, for completely opposite reasons. _"Travis was our friend. And now that he's dead, well…well we can't just give up. That's not the Arick I know. That we know. That they all know."

Arick watched Zeara gesture to the air around them.

He suddenly realised what she meant. His only defence against the Capitol prying into the real reason behind him volunteering was if he gave them one of his own. And that had been the idiot fighter. He'd laughed with the interviewer. He'd gotten an alright score, nothing too special, but strong enough to bolster up the image he was creating.

But it just wasn't who he was. The Capitol saw a deluded fighter. District Eight required a focused, attentive, militaristic leader for the rebellion.

He was neither.

Yet Zeara was right. For his sake, hers and Barnaby's, if he didn't move on from Travis' death, they would all suffer.

"Barnaby, take off your backpack and find out what's in it."

His attention shifted back to Zeara, a focused look in his eye, all make-belief courage and determination poured forth into his outward demeanour. Maybe he really was nothing. Maybe Eight had stripped him of who he could have become. But that meant, really, all he'd ever been doing was acting. Pretending.

If he had to pretend some more, then so be it.

"We'll set up camp here, organize ourselves, categorise supplies and catch our breath. From our base here, we'll find out what's waiting for us, and take action once we're one-hundred percent certain."

Arick straightened his back, took off his own backpack, and started to open it.

"The Games require people willing to fight. That's who we are."

Zeara and Barnaby stared at him.

"We're fighters."

* * *

Phris sat with her head rested against his knee.

He hadn't moved all day. The Careers were over the edge of the trenches, barely twenty feet away, crowded around the Cornucopia. He knew they had to be plotting something. And he did care. Very much so.

But what he cared about more, so much more, was whose head was in his lap.

He'd found her after the bloodbath. After he'd landed on the other side, worked his way round the edge, hopefully towards a scared, lonesome tribute he might have preyed upon easily.

Because that's what this was. A death match. It was what he knew it would always come down to – he either gave up his life and let someone else survive, or he said _screw them _and lived for himself.

And he'd known all along she would have to die. But seeing her plain, yet oddly beautiful face, milky pale and dead to the world, made it harder to walk with conviction and purpose.

It was easier to sit and hold Audria.

Terrifyingly difficult to see her dead, but easier. Because right now he didn't have to hate. He didn't have to scorn the existence of the human race. He didn't have to question why, what, who, when or how. All he had to do was think about Audria dying.

He had to think about what that meant to him, what it made him feel, and realise that something… something was different.

Audria had to die. _But it's not fair. It's… wrong._

He heard someone laugh. With the weather stabilized, and the never-ending trenches twisting and turning right by his side, Phris was stuck between two places.

He looked at Audria, sighed, and brushed a strand of blonde hair from her eye. When he stood up and gently placed her down, he gripped onto his sword and closed his eyes, clenching his fist round the handle as tightly as he could.

_Now it's time you win. Not just for yourself, but for her._

_You don't need to hate. Simply realise… realise what you have to do. Who the others are. And do what needs to be done._

Win.

He could seek his revenge on the Careers, claim vengeance for what they did to not just Audria, but everyone else they had killed today. The very foundation they stood upon. What they meant to the Capitol and the Games themselves.

If he really thought about it, he could kill them secretly. He could be smart about it and work out how to take them down one by one, without so much as earning a scratch in return.

Or he could sit here and dwell on his past, present, and possible future. Stationary. Doing nothing. Lying around, waiting for death to creep its way towards him and claim him for its own. The coward's way out.

And the final option – maybe the hardest opinion in the long run – was to venture out into the trenches, become the tribute he'd so quickly decided to become, and kill.

Kill, kill, kill. Until no one was left but himself.

Audria would never have killed. Audria wouldn't have had the stomach for it. But he wasn't Audria.

He was Phris Cantle, from District Ten, from a place that heralded no fortune for people like him, for people so lost to the world and its corruption.

Phris Cantle wanted to live more than anything. Even in this shitty, rotten world, he had his purpose. He would always have his purpose. A purpose that shoved a middle finger up in the air, proudly, waving it around at the very Capitol itself, denying them what they wanted more than anything.

They wanted his death. They wanted to see him dead. They wanted him to become another nameless victim to the Hunger Games.

So he had his own response. His own _fuck you _to the Gamemakers.

He would survive.

* * *

"Doesn't it make you nervous?"

Petra glanced up at Emigdio. Even though the trenches were tall enough to prevent Emigdio from peeking over the edge, Petra couldn't help but feel like an ant waiting to be stepped on when she stood next to her ally.

She shook her head, biting her lip nervously. She wasn't sure what she was nervous about. Probably the entire situation she was in. It wasn't as if it was weird to be nervous. Not here of all places.

Still, it was all in how she controlled her nerves. That was where she had a step over some of the competition.

Emigdio gestured in the wake of Petra's silence in the direction of Clytie, up ahead, obliviously scouting out the way forwards from their trek through the trenches.

Everything seemed the same from Petra's point of a view. A few trenches would have more sandbags, or more barbed wire lining the top, and some would have more space cut into the sides where there seemed to be shelter from the rain, but they all shared mud and a low level of hygiene between them all.

It wasn't about the Arena, though. It was what she could do with it. Later on, with more knowledge on her new environment, she was convinced soon enough she might have a proper plan. Right now it was about finding shelter and canvassing the lay of the land.

For now, it was time to be patient.

Right now, her focus had to be on Emigdio, who hadn't been acting himself since the bloodbath.

_Not that I can blame him. _

"She killed… and I know, I mean I know it's required and all. Not required, no one's forcing you. But she saved your life-" _I was weak, _Petra thought, as Emigdio spoke. _I'll always be weak. But that's why I'm with these two… because they're strong, and maybe they can build up a foundation from where my weaknesses are… maybe… _"-and I'm happy she did. But… well look at her…"

Petra glanced over at Clytie.

She seemed her normal self. Still friendly, still infusing the air with something of a casual calmness.

"I don't know. I see nothing different. Maybe you're just scared. I'm scared. We're all scared. There's nothing wrong with that."

Emigdio shook his head. "It's as if she's… well she understands more now, about who we have to be. She's already killed and I know she hates herself for it, but she doesn't hate herself enough to stop, think over what she's done, and simply fail to… be."

Petra's face gave away her confusion.

He sighed. "I'm not saying I want her to give up. But she's adapting way too quickly. I'm scared for her. I'm scared for her mental state. We've all seen what happens to good people in the Games. Good people like Clytie."

"Don't you count yourself as a good person?" Petra asked.

Her voice barely carried over the rain, but it was loud enough for Emigdio to hear, who reacted by smiling sadly, eyes glancing at the ground instead of meeting Petra's attentive gaze.

"I'd like to think I am. I'd like to think, maybe, in different ways, we all are. Some people work hard for what they want, some people don't. But I had the chance to kill a Career. A _Career, _Petra. The people that killed Huxley. Maybe even the boy that did it." He thought of their ally and flinched. _Too soon… it's not right… _"But I lowered the weapon. I didn't even keep the weapon. It's back at the Cornucopia, covered in mud, blood, and probably still clutched in his hand. I could have killed and I didn't. If Clytie hadn't… you'd be dead… but it's the way she's reacting to it. The way she doesn't…"

_The way she doesn't fall apart. _Emigdio didn't want to finish the sentence. The thought of Clytie's smile, the hope in her eyes, the peace in her demeanour falling into nothing… it scared him. He was opening up around these people. His friends. They made him think of his family and the same paternal feeling he felt back in Eleven became overpowering in their presence.

But he was scared for Clytie. There was a chance what she might become after her actions, not properly dealing with the consequences of killing someone, would harm him and Petra.

And he couldn't let that happen.

Petra reminded him too much of… _too much of her._

The little girl from Seven didn't know how to respond. Clytie finally came to a stop. When she looked back over her shoulder, she saw Petra touch Emigdio on the arm, in a way that was meant to be comforting, and she quickly closed the distance between where Clytie was standing, and where she had been.

No matter what, as close as they were, this was still the Hunger Games. Petra had to think about what was waiting for her further down the road, when she couldn't rely on them anymore. Maybe she'd never fully trust them. But they were still her friends. And if what Emigdio thought proved to be right, if Clytie's actions backfired in a way that would consume their alliance entirely, then maybe it was better she stayed away and hid behind Emigdio.

But she didn't.

She went the opposite direction. Because in a fight, Emigdio had lowered his weapon and shown mercy. Clytie hadn't. She'd killed, saved Petra's life, and hadn't looked back.

Clytie know knew the reality of this life. Petra would need that. She needed a killer.

"Everything alright?" Clytie asked, smiling.

Petra nodded and tried to smile back. "As good as they can be."

"I know it's hard with what happened with Huxley, but I bet he's looking down on us from somewhere and cheering our names. We'll do this for him."

_Do what? _Petra thought. _Win? We can't all make it that far…_

She kept those thoughts to herself and nodded, making room for Emigdio when he finally decided to step closer.

"Well," Clytie said, gesturing to the area around them, "I think this is as good as it'll get. If we sleep in some kind of huddle, it'll keep us warm enough. We've got our supplies. A weapon or two. And a few boards of wood in the mud over there we can use as some kind of protection."

"Protection?" Emigdio asked.

"Wood won't do too much good, but it's better than nothing."

Clytie stepped over to the rotten, muddy planks of discarded wood and gave them a gentle tap with her boot. When one of them moved, the three of them stared, transfixed, a gasp from Clytie acting as the only noise that pierced the silence.

"Is that…?" Clytie's eyes widened as she bent down, picked up a round, circular disc of metal, and turned it over in her hands. A lightbulb went off in her head. "It's a mine!"

Emigdio's stomach turned. His hand went to grab Petra and pull her backwards, away from the inevitable explosion, but when Clytie's eyebrows knitted together in focus, he stopped himself and let his arm hang useless by his side.

"More than one by the looks it," Clytie moved the wood and pulled out five mines, nothing remarkable, but it wasn't the design that mattered. Their purpose was clear enough. "They aren't switched on. If only…"

Clytie winced. Petra looked at the ground. Emigdio stared at the mines.

_If only Huxley was here._

Clytie knew their friend from Three would know how to work with these things. He was a whiz with technology. Clytie could work with flowers and sew. Petra knew how to be quick and smart about things. Emigdio knew how to till fields and work with his hands.

But mines? None of them knew how they worked aside from the obvious fact that pressure made them go boom.

_Boom… _

The gears in Clytie's head went round and round. She looked up at her two allies, gazing down at her, and then glanced back at the mines in her hands.

She hated what she'd done to Fira. She hated the look in Emigdio's eyes, conflicted between the loss of his District partner, and the saving of Petra. And then their youngest ally… there was something in the way she stared at Clytie that made her stomach turn.

She did hate herself. But that didn't mean she had to show that to them. Clytie had done what anyone would have done in her position. And it didn't stop there. This was the Games. People died. People _had _to die.

Maybe she wouldn't be the one to kill them, or maybe she would. If she wanted her alliance to have a chance, if she wanted them to live for as long as possible, that meant others had to fall.

_Others had to go… boom…_

"We… we can use these…"

Clytie handed two of them to Emigdio, one to Petra, and kept two for herself.

"If we work out how to turn them on, the wiring or something, then we can set up a trap. We can…" She paused, realizing what she was saying. _We can kill people. We can kill kids like Huxley, like Fira, like Petra and Emigdio and me… we can kill people that shouldn't be here… _"We have an advantage."

Petra nodded, turning the mine over in her hands.

Emigdio wanted to drop it. He hadn't killed Uriah. He knew a small part of his mind resented Clytie for killing someone, and then hating himself because that would have meant Petra, a girl that resembled his daughter, would have died.

"I know it's not… it's not right, nothing in here is." Clytie stood up, holding out the mines in front of her. "But we have something here. A chance. We can't waste it."

At that moment, all three of them froze, the sound of footsteps reverberating down the trench walls, coming closer and closer.

Emigdio instinctively pulled Petra backwards and moved her behind his thick, muscular frame.

Clytie eyed her weapon nervously. Rather than leave it in the mud, however, she picked it up and readied her stance. _Kill or be killed… I'm prepared to use these mines… I have to be prepared to use this knife._

With Clytie and Emigdio ready to defend their alliance, Cade Grayson, the little boy from Six, turned the corner.

Clytie stopped herself from lunging. Emigdio stared at the boy. But it was Petra, the only person who had had any kind of interaction with him, that stepped forwards from Emigdio's back and moved for Cade.

"P-Petra…" his eyes widened, before a smile made its way onto his face, and he burst out laughing.

"He's alright, guys," Petra looked back at his allies, grinning. "He won't hurt us."

"How do you know?"

She looked back at Cade and froze. When he started laughing again, moving closer for Petra, she started to chuckle. Petra and Cade immediately began talking. Neither could fully trust each other, but that was part of the deal with where they were.

Trust wasn't an easy thing to come by.

"Where's Hale?" Petra asked, staring over his shoulder, expecting him to come bounding around the corner with a bundle of books clutched to his chest.

However the way Cade's face immediately fell told a different story. "I… I can't find him. He's such a goofball, the idiot must be somewhere lost in these trenches. Maybe… maybe we'll meet up soon enough."

Clytie spoke up before Petra could get a word out in response. "You could stay with us for the time being? Until you're on your feet and ready to find him."

Emigdio bit his lip. He didn't know this kid. Petra seemed to like him. And Clytie of course, even with what she was going through, looked past the fact that Cade was a stranger in the Hunger Games.

But he didn't object when Cade nodded, stared once at the mines, raised an eyebrow, but said nothing of it.

For now, their alliance had a new member, and he had to make the most of it.

It was either that, or leave.

Running away wasn't an option. He cared too much about Petra and Clytie. No matter what happened, he would be here, by their sides, through thick and thin.

They were a team.

They were friends.

* * *

With the first day coming to a close, the sky opened wider and wider, the rain intensifying from a gentle patter to a vigorous downpour.

Delora pulled the frayed blanket over her shoulders. Each of them had one. They'd found a bundle hidden under a plank of rotten wood, hidden amongst the mud and bits of rock nestled against the trench wall.

She had no way of knowing where exactly they were. All she knew as she looked out from her huddled position, shivering against the dampness of the mud, the way it slithered in her boots and chilled her to her core, was that her and two of her allies were safe.

Not safe. Never safe. Content, maybe. They had some sort of shelter, a mess of blankets and backpacks they used as pillows to lie down on.

She looked at Nevaeh and frowned. The three of them hadn't said much to each other, not since the bloodbath had ended. The girl from Five had done her best to stitch up the ruin of her ear. It throbbed and burnt, but for now it seemed alright.

Delora ignored the worry that it might get infected down here, with all this dirt and ruin. For now she had a job to do. With the anthem about to start… with what she knew would soon be shown above their heads, she had two allies that needed her.

That was the first step she had to take to quell this horrible nervousness that she would never be the best kind of leader her alliance needed. Maybe they didn't need a constant reality check, a constant tirade of how to act, what to do, who to be for the cameras.

They just needed a friend. Delora could be that.

_For now._

"Scooch over."

In front of where Delora sat, waiting for the anthem, Andryn bumped shoulders with Nevaeh, smiling when they met eyes.

The girl from Five nodded bleakly and moved closer to the wall. Somewhere deep, deep down, she knew what had happened. Andryn did too. It was an impossibly difficult hurdle to jump. For the whole of today, the girl with a smile on her face, and the girl with colours in her eyes, found it easier to cling to hope rather than face the burden of reality.

But that couldn't last forever. In fact, in a matter of minutes, it would shatter into nothing.

"Talk."

Nevaeh blinked at Andryn. She frowned, confused. All this rain did was create little droplets of a dark, depressing shade of blue in her vision whenever they connected with the ground. Andryn's tone had once been a pulsing, bright sunshine burst of yellow. Now it was grey. Grey like the colour that accompanied Nevaeh's name.

Grey like this world.

"Come on Nevaeh," Andryn said, grinning. "Let's talk. About anything. We should distract ourselves."

Nevaeh pointed to the sky. "But it's going to… start soon…"

"And when it does, we…" Andryn paused, smile twisting into something pained and nervous. Quickly she wiped that away and returned to her normal self. "Well we deal with it then. But come on. How about you tell me something about District Five. Your favourite thing about it."

The girl from Three looked so eager to learn _something. _Nevaeh didn't want to put her down by shaking her head and falling in on her own hunger for sleep. She wanted to forget. Nevaeh simply didn't want to hurt anymore.

Behind her, she knew Delora was staring at them, assessing their relationship, thinking, feeling, doing whatever it was a girl like her did. She was the one so ready for this. Ready for what had to come. In someways, Nevaeh wished to be her, instead of this frail, miserable looking girl, who never knew what to say or how to say it.

But she refused to give up. If the anthem revealed what she thought it would… then she couldn't… she wouldn't…

"My father," Nevaeh said, quietly, before trying to smile. "He was… is… he is the greatest thing in Five. The greatest person I've ever known."

"Tell me about him."

Nevaeh let the memories drift through her mind, some happy, some tinged with blue and grey, memories she would never forget. Sadness wasn't always a bad thing. These kind of memories reminded her of what had made her relationship with her father so strong, so meaningful.

Sometimes the bad made the good all the more important.

"We went through some things. Hard things. Everyone does, but when you're going through pain and hurt and feeling like your entire world means nothing, it's hard to think about anyone else but yourself."

Nevaeh's soft voice filled the anguished silence around them. Andryn was hooked to her every word, completely transfixed because whatever Nevaeh had to say made it easier for Andryn to focus on something in the past, rather than her present.

That was her defence mechanism.

"But through that he became not just my father, but my best friend. I wasn't the easiest person to get along with. With him, though, I never felt like I had to be anyone but myself. He always told me I was his miracle. We played music. We sometimes would sing and draw and paint and whatever made it easier to… forget…"

"Forget what?" Andryn asked.

"Forget… forget where we lived. Forget the… the reality."

Andryn opened her mouth to say something. However, before she could, her words were snuffed out by the Capitol anthem, blaring out of the hidden speakers for the first time this year.

Delora finally moved towards her two allies. With muddy knees and muddy hands, half her ear missing, she smiled when they nervously looked over their shoulders and met their leader's eyes.

She would be there for them. Before she could no longer be.

Andryn squeaked, throwing a hand to cover her mouth, as she tried to stem the flow of her tears when Huxley's face shone through the night-sky, pale and awkward, a smile on his face that didn't quite reach his worried eyes.

Delora's hand instantly went to Andryn's.

"He always admired you, Andryn," Delora said. "Even from afar. You helped him."

Of course Delora didn't know Huxley. But there was something she had seen, observing everyone from a distance during training, that made itself obvious whenever Huxley's sad eyes landed on his District partner.

Andryn tried to smile, the corners of her lips twitching.

"Thank you..."

Tears fell down her cheeks when Amaya's face replaced Huxley's.

The three girls held in a breath, letting the reality of her demise sink in. Delora had known. She'd known from the second Nevaeh and Andryn had joined her side and they'd left the Cornucopia, without her.

She hadn't been close with Amaya. None of them had. But it was still a blow. It still brought tears to Delora's eyes. _Because I failed… I was supposed to be there, and I wasn't. _

Travis Sauver was next. None of the girls knew him, but the smile on his face made Andryn's heart flutter with sadness for his loss. Here was a boy in another place, another time, Andryn was sure she would have been friends with.

Now she'd never the chance.

Another smiling face appeared in the sky. This time it belonged to Hale, the boy from Nine. His eyes were distant and almost dreamy, the goofy grin on his jaw making Andryn laugh, even though she hadn't know him either.

So many faces. So many kids that shouldn't be dead. And yet they were. There was nothing anyone could do about it.

Delora shifted forwards before the next face even appeared. Because she knew, and she was ready. She had to be.

The moment Audria replaced Hale, Nevaeh couldn't help but gasp, her entire body shaking with the force her friend's demise hit her with. Delora's free hand clasped tightly into Nevaeh's, squeezing it as comfortingly as she could.

"We fight for her, okay. For Amaya and for Audria. Neither would want us to give up for them. Nevaeh, Audria cared for you more than anyone. We all saw the way you two were together…" Delora paused as Nevaeh's eyes started to water, tears trailing down her cheeks and landing in the mud alongside the raindrops. "…you have to use that friendship for something better."

"Like District Five. What you went through, helping you and your father grow stronger…" Andryn said, smiling when Nevaeh's tearful eyes looked up and blinked as they met her own.

She nodded. _Audria… _Nevaeh would never forget her. They'd understood each other. They'd came from different Districts, yet knew how the other felt, knew so much without having to say anything.

When the last face appeared; Fira Trevalle, the girl from Eleven, Delora thought of Gwilym and frowned.

She was sad for his sake. Without anyone guarding his back, it would be hard for him.

When the anthem sounded again and the light faded from the sky, Delora stayed where she was and looked at Andryn and Nevaeh. Soon enough, they would have to die if Delora had any chance of making it to the end.

It was a constant whirlwind of emotion. Because she wanted to be the leader they needed, the friend they wanted, the companion required in the Arena. But she wanted to see her sister again. She wanted to see District Twelve in all its ashen, impoverished glory.

She was in control of her own life. That was how she liked it. Step by step she would do whatever had to be done, no matter the price.

Right now, though, reality was easier to placate for something that made her heart warm, the nervousness in her stomach ebb away, as she continued to hold onto Andryn and Nevaeh, huddled up close with the rain falling down, mud all around, and a swarm of rats that ran from right behind them.

For now they were a team.

But even when they couldn't be any longer, they would always be friends.

That would never change.

* * *

Romina started to stand up.

_Sit down, sit down, sit down, sit down. Sit. Down._

She continued to stand up, second by second, up, up, up, with her heart a frenzy in her chest.

_Don't do this. Don't be stupid. You'll get yourself killed._

Once she was standing, half hunched over, shrouded in the darkness of night, she took a cautious, tiptoe-like step forwards, tentatively hooking her arm underneath her backpack strap, grasping onto a small, insignificant knife somewhere in the mud.

Every noise she made, every inch of movement she created, Romina's fears threatened to consume her whole. Her paranoia was on haywire, her breathing panicked and terrified, fighting its way out from her chest.

But she'd made her decision.

Perhaps, all along, she'd made this decision.

She was leaving the Careers. Tonight.

The one face she thought of as she abandoned her allies, perhaps maybe the one thing that was right within this Arena, was Andryn's face, circling before her eyes, coaxing her forwards.

It was impossible for the girl from Three to survive if Romina wanted to live. But until that moment had to arrive, at least she could feel like she was herself, rather than suffer, choking under the pressures belonging to this Career pack meant.

Her sanity would fracture. Her entire concept of who she was would fall in on itself. If she didn't get out it would kill her. And maybe if she did get out it would do the same.

But she had to take this risk.

There was no turning back.

One step, followed by another, and then another, Romina found herself past her sleeping allies, supplies in heaps around their base camp. She did her absolute best to avoid a mine a few inches from her right foot, nervous sweats building on her forehead, as she practically danced and dived over the remaining space between her and the trenches' edge.

_Don't look back._

She liked Riena. She liked Diantha. In a way she even liked Alston and Uriah.

_Theon…_ Romina didn't hate him. She tried her hardest to never hate anyone. Theon was who he was. Maybe Romina simply didn't understand him. After all, she'd never met him before the reaping. His story was unknown to her. He was a stranger. They all were.

She said a silent goodbye to each of them, all five of her ex-allies, and hopped down.

Her journey to find Andryn and her group might take days. Maybe even a week. The trenches seemed unkind to the tributes.

A maze of warlike structures, anything housed between its walls, might kill her before she even had the chance to find them. Romina, however, took another deep breath, rounded the corner, held her head high, and staggered to a halt with the force of a brick wall, pummelling her in her chest.

Phris Cantle, the District Ten male, disappeared round another corner. A few feet away from where Romina stood and where he'd vanished, the deceased form of the girl from Ten still hadn't been collected, left to rot in the shadows of the trench.

_Andryn. _

Audria was Andryn's ally.

She looked back at where she'd spotted Phris and nodded to herself. After what had happened to his District partner, could it be possible he might go looking for the people Audria had called a friend?

She needed a lead. Maybe it wasn't true, maybe she was grasping at straws for some kind of footing in her new path, but it was better than nothing.

Romina took another step forwards. Another. Then another.

A few more, and…

"We're not all idiots, you know."

Romina froze. Her blood chilled, frozen in her veins, her heartbeat so frantic she thought she might vomit it up along with her strength and determination.

She looked over her shoulder and met the twinkling eyes of Diantha.

"I don't think you're an idiot. None of you."

Diantha took a step towards her. "No one really sleeps here. We might try to, but it doesn't work. Not the way it used to. Besides, we're Careers. It's only a matter of time before Alston tries to stab me in the back."

Romina knew the situation wouldn't tip in her favour. Diantha was taking steps in her direction. Nothing significant. Tiny steps in fact. But they were still there, and she was getting closer.

The girl from Four started to sweat.

"Please. I just want to go. I don't… you know I'm not… I'm not like you."

Diantha muffled her derisive laugh with her hand, rolling her eyes. "So you're better than us?"

"No. No of course not. We're just different. There's nothing wrong with different."

"Of course not," Diantha grinned. "Not until you go wherever it is you want to go, bring them back here, and try to kill us. You'd probably fail. But that doesn't mean you might not take out one of us with you. Me, maybe. I can't let that happen. You're a risk now… and I thought we were… close."

"We were. We were friends. _Are_ friends."

She shook her head. "Not friends. There aren't friends in this place. But close. Romina, you were nice; gentle even. And the way you glared at Theon like some angry wife made me want to be on your side more times than I could count. But that doesn't mean I can't stop this…"

Romina took a step back. Diantha took a step forwards.

"Just… let me leave."

She had her back to the advancing girl from Two. Her steps became hurried and frightened, her vision tinged with the darkness surrounding her, threatening to cave in. Diantha was faster and stronger.

"You don't need to go. You could have stayed. We had a plan. The Games just started. There was a place for you," Diantha said, pursuing her fleeing ally.

Romina couldn't feel her tongue. Words failed her as she neared the corner, one hand out, the other by her side.

She felt a presence behind her. She was about to die… she was about to be killed and there was nothing she could do about it.

A hand went to touch her shoulder.

Gripping onto it tight, and before Romina could stop herself, round she whizzed, the hand by her hip upright, meeting the air, with the blade slashing across Diantha's throat.

She thought the worst sight she would see in this Arena was the spearhead poking out of Travis Sauver's ribs.

She was wrong.

The way the blood spurted out like a sprinkler, inconsistent, along with the choking sounds of Diantha suffocating on her own life, made Romina's eyes water within seconds.

Diantha's cheeks went pale, tears falling down her face and landing in the mud as she tipped sideways and fell, her once beautiful blonde hair covered with blood as she frantically tried to stem the flow.

Romina watched her, sobbing, as Diantha's movements started to cease. A twitch. Another tear. A drop of blood staining Romina's cheek.

A cannon sounded, cutting through the night-sky.

Romina had killed. Diantha was dead.

_Get out of here._

With tears in her eyes, with a bloody knife clutched in her pale, shaking fingers, Romina rounded the corner Phris had taken and disappeared into the night.

In the space of a day, she'd gone from a survivor of the bloodbath, to a betrayer of friends and a murderer of an ally.

There was nothing she could do. The past was the past, now she had to focus on her future.

She had to be strong.

If only she could remember how.

* * *

_**Diantha Cravelle, District Two Female.**_

* * *

**Diantha, for the short time she was around, was a fun character to explore. I enjoyed messing with the fact that at her core, she was a fun-loving, playful girl, but at the same time tried her hardest to wear a mask of cool responsibility for her own wellbeing in terms of surviving in a Games environment. However for the sake of driving the Career plot onwards, I needed an early death to kick things into action. Sadly, Diantha was the one I chose to be that early death.**

* * *

**Another one falls!**

**Not every chapter will have a death. Usually I don't go straight into killing off a tribute after the bloodbath, but for the sake of changing things up a bit, I decided to. I never write the longest games, but they aren't too short either. Some chapters will have one, two or three die. Some will have no one. **

**Anyone who read Lonely Hour knows that with this format the chapters tend to be long. Hopefully not too long (this chapter was like… 10,000 words…oops), it just depends how many scenes I decide to have. This chapter I wanted to show everyone, so there were a quite a few.**

**I'm aware some people prefer the POV format, but I hope you still stick with it and enjoy what's to come. The POV format is something I love reading. But writing wise, I find it easier this way because it's more to the point and also the tributes get showcased a loooot more than I would have been able to if I'd stuck to POVs. Plus, third person is way easier like this.**

**Anywho, thanks for reading, and if you can, let me know what you thought :)**


	21. Animals

**Chapter Twenty-One.**

* * *

**Day Two, Part One.**

* * *

It was almost funny.

If funny meant all four of them left teary-eyed, clutching each other for hope, staring at the sky as if the only way out was somewhere amongst the dreary, bleak and discontent clouds.

Cade opened his eyes, waking from sleep, and blinked at the sky. _If that's what funny means… then ha ha HA._

Last night had been a rollercoaster of an evening.

From clinging to hope that he might find his ally somewhere, Hale tripping over encyclopaedias, muddy-faced and messy-haired, to finding Petra, elation in his heart, to the Capitol anthem and the faces of the fallen. Up, down, up, down, and soon enough, plenty more downs until there was nowhere else to go.

But what was funny, what made it so much more funny, the awful kind of funny, was he'd found an alliance that shared exactly what he had realised last night.

Together, with Petra, Clytie and Emigdio, the one thing that bonded them was a soul-crushing realization that they were… alone.

Amaya was dead. Travis was dead. Hale was dead. Fira was dead.

A piece from Six, Seven, Nine and Eleven, the only people that meant if they died, their families might still get fed, were gone.

They were alone. Truly, truly alone.

_And I'm the loneliest…_

Cade stretched his arms, swallowed back a tired yawn, and slowly rose to a standing position. Petra's spot was empty. For a moment worry flared in his chest, but Cade held that down, knowing Petra, even for her age, was probably the one person that could protect herself wherever she currently was.

_At twelve and she's… one of the toughest... _She was everything Cade had ever wanted to be.

But they had each other, their trio of a friendship. Cade's ally had died. He'd come into this knowing that it was going to be hard to be someone he wasn't. Be the kid that could joke, laugh, poke fun and tease, but still remain detached and cynical enough to distance himself. With Hale, there had been an exception. And then Petra came along, and that added a second exception to the rule.

If he tried to let anyone else in. If he continued on this rollercoaster with someone else next to him in the carriage, he was doomed. Because now that Hale was dead, now that Cade felt like sinking into the mud and drowning in regret and sadness might be the easier way out than this, he could not be with anyone else.

He could not see another friend die.

He had to do this alone.

Cade looked at the shadowed, sleeping form of Emigdio. The boy from Eleven would protect Petra until she could no longer be protected. And then Clytie, sweet, soft Clytie, whose arm seemed to nestle the mines to her chest, as if they were more important than anything, dealing with a horrible reality that she had killed her own friend's District partner.

Cade had no way of knowing who had killed Amaya, but he knew, here and now, staring at Clytie and Emigdio, that he'd rather be alone for the rest of his life than deal with staring into the eyes of her killer.

For that, he commended Emigdio. And for that, there was another reason he had to leave.

With his backpack hoisted over his shoulder, and a small knife clutched in his hand for limited protection, he did his absolute best to leave the area in total silence. The rain was a blessing in that regard. It masked his footsteps, his light, twelve-year old footsteps, that tiptoed in the mud until he was out of earshot.

_Okay, Cade. Big boy shoes on now. It's you and you alone. For Hale, for Amaya. We've got this._

He turned the corner, big-kid face set, and jumped two foot in the air.

His heart was hammering in his ears. He felt torn between channelling his acceptable paranoia into throwing the knife forwards, or turning away and running, tail between his legs.

Luckily he did neither.

Luckily, Cade managed to hold onto whatever small amount of courage he had left. For however long it would last.

"C-Cade…"

The boy from Six met the small eyes of Petra. Her smile immediately slipped into a frown when her eyes took in his full appearance. She looked over his shoulder, then over her own, and sighed.

For a moment, Cade tried to piece together some kind of explanation. Worst case scenario was she wouldn't… let him leave.

_Of course not. We might be tributes, but Petra would never do such a thing._

But then she smiled. And when she smiled, it made it easier for Cade to smile.

He liked to smile. It reminded him of Hale.

"I understand," she said.

Cade's grip on his knife relaxed, until it was practically hanging useless by his side. "I just… after seeing what happened, seeing his face, those eyes, that sappy grin… I can't, Petra. I just can't."

Petra nodded and took a step forwards. "As I said, I understand. I have my alliance still. You… you lost… you lost your friend. If this is what you have to do, then do it. Don't hold back."

She took another step towards him, Cade doing the same in her direction. A few feet away from one another and Cade suddenly came to a halt. His eyes glanced downwards, then straight back up, his cheeks practically aflame, red as red could be.

"Uh… Petra…"

She frowned. "Yeah?"

"You left for a reason right? Before Clytie and Emigdio could wake up…"

A lightbulb went off inside her head. She glanced down at her trousers, unbelted, halfway down her legs, and shrieked, blushing, tongue-tied as she slaved over trying to piece together a coherent sentence amongst her embarrassed, frantic mumblings.

Cade wanted to laugh. When he started to chuckle, Petra met his eyes, her little shoulders bouncing up and down as silent laughter shook through her chest.

"I had to… er…" she looked away, blushing again. "…pee."

"Don't we all?" Cade winked and closed the gap between them.

Before she could get a word out, his small, twelve-year old arms were wrapped round Petra's, small, twiggy, twelve-year old arms. They had so much weight on their shoulders. The two youngest in the Arena, with the whole world against them, so much to do, so much to lose, so much unfulfilled potential locked away inside.

It was staggering. But as Cade and Petra embraced, for a brief moment, their unity shone a light through the rainy clouds, a smile on both their faces.

A moment later they pulled apart. Cade and Petra swapped places, Petra in the direction of her allies, and Cade in the direction of the unknown beyond.

"You look after yourself," Petra said, torn between a grin for a friend, and a frown for someone that had to die if she was to ever win.

Cade laughed, rolling her shoulders. "Since when have I ever done anything but look after myself?"

He winked, Petra laughed, and they split up, going their separate ways.

Both knew they wouldn't see each other again. Both knew that they'd rather they never had to. In this Arena, knowing what was to come, if they did, if Petra and Cade had to meet after this last farewell, they wouldn't be allies, they wouldn't be anything but friends who had to be enemies.

One had to die for the other to live.

Neither wanted the other to die. But neither wanted to sacrifice themselves either.

_As I said… funny. Funny in the worst possible way._

The Games were truly fucked up.

* * *

Uriah stared at her face.

His entire body had been sapped of energy. His face, his smile, his eyes, his very flair and essence. All of it. Who he was hadn't gone, hadn't disappeared, but it was resting, hidden away inside as he continued to stare.

Then, Uriah blinked.

"She's dead."

Alston watched attentively, eyes fixated on the back of Uriah's head, as if he could see through his skull, at the way his eyes flickered over his District partner's now deceased form, the way his fingers clenched and unclenched by his hip.

Uriah's chain-scythe fell from his hands and he bent down, knees brushing Diantha's overcoat, soaked to her still, frozen body, as the rain beat against the living and the dead.

"Uriah…." Alston finally snapped into movement.

He'd expected this, of course. It had to happen. All five of them. Even Uriah who Alston was mainly sticking with for inevitable conflict, conflict he could harness, had to die. But that didn't change how Alston felt. He still… liked him.

The definition of a fucked up situation.

His fingers went to Uriah's shoulder, and for a brief moment Uriah almost let himself be comforted.

But it was brief. Almost non-existent. And as quick as the touch came, Uriah shrugged, turned around, and stood up, eye to eye with Alston.

Over his shoulder Riena stood, sodden hair like frayed strands, swaying in the wind. Theon by her side, eyes on the muddy trench floor, as if he wanted to be anywhere but here and couldn't bear to look at Diantha's body.

_I don't blame him… _Uriah sighed, then straightened up, and smiled. It was forced, but a smile was a smile. He'd be damned if this would change him.

He still had a game to win.

"We all know who did it."

The three Careers looked at Uriah in silence. The name hung in the air, a single name now wrapped in so much confusion, anger and bitter emotion that it was almost impossible for anyone to say it.

Until Riena stepped forward, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled.

"Romina."

Theon flinched. _Romina… _His soft-spoken, peaceful District partner, who as much as she was a decent, honourable person, who hated conflict, would still stand up and shake her head whenever Theon acted, well… Theon-like.

_And now she goes and does this._

"Surely there's a… reason…" Alston said, awkwardly glancing down at Diantha's body.

It had happened last night, of course. The day had only just begun but the cannon had woken him from his post. They'd left it for a few hours, dismissing it as an outer-District death, none of their concern.

Until Theon woke up, saw Romina and Diantha's absence, and disappeared into the trench.

When he came back, Riena and Uriah had woken. The day had started. And here they were. Diantha's smile had gone. The light humour in her eyes had faded. Everything that had once been of their ally, a girl who had had a bond with each of them, was nothing but dust in the wind.

She was a shell. Empty. Nothing.

She was dead.

Uriah didn't want to hear an excuse. He didn't want to hear much of anything. If it became Diantha this, Diantha that, then he might lose his mind. But he wasn't going to listen to an excuse. No matter what… Romina… _Romina can't just walk away from this._

"She killed an ally. Someone she was supposed to look out for."

Alston frowned. "It's the Games, Uriah. Maybe Romina… Romina realised what was going to happen, and… did it first…"

"What, what was going to happen?" Uriah turned on Alston, eyes flaring, wider than he'd expected, wider than he had any hope of controlling, a snarl creeping up his jaw. "We were going to kill each other this soon? They call us monsters. They call us a whole host of different shit, and we deal with it because that's who we are. But… but we still look out for each other. Because no one else will."

"And we kill each other," Alston said, voice strained.

"Because that's the Games," Uriah pushed past him. "But no. Not this early. There's no excuse."

Alston stared at Uriah as he whisked past Riena and Theon, pushed himself back up onto the minefield, and walked towards the Cornucopia.

He forced a smile onto his face as he dodged the nearest explosive device, moving for a bundle of supplies. He took a swig of water and sat down on a large crate, staring out into nothing. His hands nervously fumbled against his jacket, tapping away at his leg, a nervous melody to distract himself.

_Oh, Diantha. Love me or hate me… I did… I did care for you._

Back down in the trench, Alston bent down, picked up Uriah's weapon, and sighed, facing Riena and Theon.

"He'll move on," Riena whispered, attempting what she thought might be a comforting smile. The smile someone had to create. The leader, caught in the eye of the storm. "He has to."

Theon stepped up and did something that wasn't some petty advance, or creepy way of acting towards someone of the opposite sex; his hand went to Riena's shoulder and he squeezed it, smiling. "He's Uriah. Of course he will."

The three of them joined their grieving ally back at the Cornucopia. For another hour or two, it was almost silent. If it wasn't for the rain beating relentlessly down onto the ground, as if the clouds themselves had been torn apart by the downpour and had nothing else to do, they might have heard a pin drop.

Uriah had lost Diantha. Theon was trying to wrap his head around what Romina had been doing. Alston's mind went at fifty paces ahead of what was healthy considering the situation. _Diantha is dead… a rip in our dynamic has already been created… and usually this drama would be enjoyable… but now… _And then there was Riena. She looked around at her allies, at the way Uriah couldn't even look at another one of the Careers without flinching, and then down at her feet.

Maybe two hours had passed since they had circled Diantha's body. Two hours until Riena finally stood up once more, picked up her bow, and cleared her throat.

"We're still Careers. We're still the Pack, the Capitol's favourite, the people that volunteered for a specific role and have a job to do. If we lose that… we're nothing…" Her eyes lit up in the grey shroud the Arena entombed them in, staring at each of her remaining allies in turn. "…we hunt. We kill. We survive. And then three of us die. But one of us will live. One of us. For Diantha. And maybe… maybe even for Romina. She's out there, she did what she did for a reason, and whether we can forgive her or not, that doesn't matter."

Uriah broke eye contact at the mention of Romina, but he still listened, dragging his finger along the chain attached to his blade. _Blood… I've already spilt blood. Riena is right… I'm a Career. It's what we do._

He stood up, met her eyes once more, and nodded.

"We have to go out there." He raised his scythe, pointing to the beyond, where the labyrinth of trenches waited for them. "We have to find the others, do what needs to be done, and play this Game. We volunteered for this. We don't make excuses. We do what we came here to do. And when one of us wins, we beat ourselves up then. But not now. I didn't kick the shit out of District Two's chosen volunteer to be surrounded by good for nothing cry-babies." He grinned, joined Riena's side, and once Alston and Theon had stood up, they moved for the trenches.

They each hopped down and formed a line. Uriah, eager and primed for battle, smile spread from ear to ear, led the front. Alston behind him. Theon next. And Riena bringing up the rear.

She failed to ignore the way Alston's fingers tightened round his spear. Or the way Theon continued to fidget, stuck between nervousness and the ability to maintain his usual, confident self. And Uriah… he'd backed her up, supported her decision, but he was headed down a dangerous road, and with someone like Alston, someone who seemed to thrive on chaos, fed on competition, and did things with his own self at the tip of everything… well…

Riena frowned.

Diantha was dead. Romina was still out there. She'd had a reason. And she might have been a killer, but there was still a peaceful, kind girl somewhere in this Arena.

Someone that wasn't like her allies. She wasn't a bomb waiting to explode. She was just the girl from Four who hadn't had a place amongst the Careers.

And maybe now… _maybe I… don't…_

She'd known that since finding Diantha's body. She'd known that for those two hours of waiting. Riena had stood up, roused her allies, because she needed them down here, she needed to be behind them, she needed them to be so caught up in their next move that they didn't notice what she was about to do.

They rounded a corner. Uriah, Alston and Theon, ready for their future, ready to take this Arena by storm.

But when Theon looked over his shoulder, Riena was nowhere to be found.

Riena was gone.

* * *

"…Leave me alone," Phris grumbled, under his breath.

He looked back over his shoulder, glaring into nothing. When he decided to turn left, another right, and maybe another left however, there would be _something_. Because she wasn't as subtle as she might have thought. It was getting on Phris' nerves.

The temptation to stand still, turn around, and face Romina Charette from District Four was almost overwhelming. But he couldn't get Audria's glazed over eyes from his mind, that distant look of death, staring up into the clouds.

He had to play this game the way it had to be played. No rights or wrongs, they didn't exist.

But he didn't stop. He kept on going.

If he couldn't gather up the will to stand and fight her, he'd have to do the second best thing and lose her in this maze. She was persistent. Nervous, he could tell, but persistent. She didn't know exactly where he was headed, but some delusional sense of hope was clinging her to his location.

Phris had a few questions circling his mind. Why was a Career away from her little herd? Why was she following him? The most important question he had, however, was about himself. _Where am I going?_

To play the game was the answer. Yet the game was all around him, never-ending. He had no idea what his next course of action was. Maybe he simply had to wait for it to reveal itself, rather than the other way round.

He gritted his teeth, sword in hand, backpack fixed over his shoulder, and started to bring his pace to a light jog. It was hard to mask his loud, heavy steps in the mud. Even with the rain, Phris' size didn't do wonders for the art of stealth. Still, he paid it no mind and continued.

Left, right, left, left, right, right, right, left, right, left, left, right. On and on and on. He turned round one trench, found himself at a junction, and proceeded to continue north. How she was tracking him he had no idea.

Anyone could get lost in here. Phris came under the category of anyone. He paused, staring at a trench wall, gazing up at the barbs atop the wood, rooted and imposing in the mud. Apart from the rain, he couldn't hear a thing. There was no muddy footsteps trying to keep up. There was nothing but his own heartbeat in his chest, accompanied by his somewhat fatigued breathing.

_I've lost her._

He smiled. He wasn't sure why exactly. Playing the game meant having to make the tough decision to stand, fight and kill. He'd done that so easily in the bloodbath. And after finding Audria, spending all day trying to piece together his resolve, he'd made it his vow to win. He had to survive.

But thinking about becoming a monster and actually taking the first step down that new road were two very different things.

So he was glad he'd lost Romina. That was why he smiled.

As quick as his lips quirked up into some weird grin, new to Phris Cantle's face, it fell, replaced by a worried frown, the sword rising up in the air as the telltale sound of footsteps struck his ears.

He'd learnt something about tracking back in training. Nothing amazing. But he could tell when someone was running, when someone was walking, and generally what type of person was making the footsteps.

They were walking. They didn't know Phris was here.

Which meant maybe it wasn't Romina. It was someone else completely.

Phris' grip tightened until his knuckles went white. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and glared down at one stretch of mud. Round the corner, someone appeared, maybe the last person Phris wanted to see, or the first. He wasn't sure.

Gwilym froze when he saw Phris standing before him.

Phris didn't know what to do. So instead of doing anything, his sword remained in his hand until Gwilym had gathered enough courage to start walking again. Step by step, he drew closer and closer towards a waiting Phris.

It was a gamble, heading for an armed tribute. Gwilym had his own weapons, but they weren't out and ready to decapitate someone's head if he so wished to do so.

The two boys took a deep breath, and once Gwilym stood barely three feet away, he paused, and attempted the most polite, respectful, yet vigilant smile he could muster.

"Phris."

He didn't know whether to say Gwilym's name in response or grunt, so he opted for something in the middle.

The boy from Twelve seemed content enough. He eyed Phris' sword and blinked, before regaining a sensational amount of composure and somehow managing to meet the boy from Ten's hostile gaze.

"I'm sorry about Audria. It must be hard to lose a District partner."

For a moment Phris nearly decided to stick with saying nothing, or grumbling. But he didn't. That wasn't right. Gwilym was being nice, the least Phris could do before he decided what was about to happen was do the same thing.

"And I'm sorry that you lost your ally… I wouldn't know what that felt like."

"Reminds me of our conversation those few short days ago," Gwilym smiled. "Seems like a lifetime has passed."

"Maybe it has."

Gwilym laughed. "Maybe we're in hell."

Phris' lips twitched upwards. Gwilym never failed to miss a beat. He latched onto that, hoping that maybe there was some spark of lenience in this boy's behaviour. If it came to a fight, Gwilym wasn't sure if he was faster than Phris, but he was convinced he wasn't stronger.

Gwilym would lose. He couldn't afford that. He had somewhere to be.

Phris, staring at Gwilym, gears turning over and over in his head, seemed to realise that as well.

"You're looking for your District partner."

It wasn't presented as a question. Gwilym nodded quickly. "I am. She lost two of her allies yesterday. One of them being…"

When Gwilym paused, Phris had to stop himself from flinching. He'd never met a girl who hated herself as much as Phris hated the entire world. But Audria had shown him something about humanity that Phris was slowly staring to learn with her death.

It was too early for someone like her to die. And yet here they were. Phris without Audria, Gwilym without an ally, and somewhere Delora was surviving, with two members of her group already gone.

"Audria and Amaya. They didn't make it," Phris said.

"Is that where you're headed? Down the same path as me? I need to find my District partner. Maybe there's something with Audria's allies waiting for you."

Phris paused. He thought about it, standing there in total silence. He'd known Audria. Not well, but there was something. He didn't know who Delora and her allies were. He didn't even really know the boy standing opposite him.

There was one thing he did know. The main rule in this place. Kill or be killed. Twenty-four go in, one comes out. That was a universal understanding about where he was. All those unknowns were worrying, but as long as he kept his distance, they would always be unknown.

"I want to play the game," Phris finally said. "That doesn't mean joining an alliance. I can't."

Gwilym raised an eyebrow, eyeing the sword once again. "Can I ask what playing the game means to you? I'm sure it means something different for everyone."

"We're standing in a trench, soaked, muddy, with rain pissing all over us, and you want to ask me that?"

"It's a fair question," Gwilym shrugged.

Phris looked at his sword, turning it over in his hand. "I think you know what playing the game means to me."

Gwilym failed to hide the nervous way he swallowed a lump in his throat. Phris' blade was awfully sharp, awfully quick, and awfully long. There wasn't a spot of blood on it. Soon, looking at the boy from Ten, all muscle, sinew and determination, made Gwilym one-hundred percent positive that the cleanliness of this sword wouldn't remain eternal.

_I just have to make sure it's not my blood that taints it._

"What does that mean for me?" He asked, respectful, calm and composed as always. "Should I be worried?"

"We should all be worried. We're in the Games."

"Right here, right now, with you holding a sword, me holding nothing, and you committed to playing the game the way you need to play it… should I be worried?"

Phris frowned. It was a simple enough question, with impossibly heavy consequences. He looked at Gwilym, then at his sword, then at the mud swarming his boots.

A raindrop trailed down the bridge of Phris' nose as he shook his head. "Not yet."

_Not yet._

It meant he wouldn't kill Gwilym now. But in the future, anything could happen.

Gwilym looked past Phris' shoulder, the way he had come, and then back at his surroundings. He tried to stop himself from smiling with relief. He'd only just decided on the plan to join Delora. He couldn't die now. He _wouldn't _die now.

"Thank you," Gwilym said. He tried to smile, holding onto the left strap of his backpack. "I guess this is it then. I should… go."

Phris nodded and stepped aside.

The two boys met eyes as Gwilym walked past. "I'd say I hope to see you soon, but your _not yet_ implies a future I'd very much not like to encounter. So I guess… good luck. Even though I really shouldn't wish you that either."

Phris nodded again. He didn't want to say anything else. He couldn't say anything else.

Gwilym walked away, distancing himself from Phris, as he stood still in the mud and rain.

He'd let one person go, even though he had decided to play the game the way everyone expected it to be played. He'd done that for his humanity. He'd done that so when he looked back after everything that was going to happen, he had one light amongst all the future dark.

But the next person he would meet, they would die. He would kill them. And that would be it.

That was the way of the Games.

* * *

Nevaeh waited.

She was patient at first. Time ticked on by and still Nevaeh stared out into the empty space beyond, not a twitch in her composure. She had to learn how to keep herself together. Not just for the sake of her own wellbeing, but the survival of her allies.

If she fell apart, she knew Andryn especially would be dragged down with her.

So she waited. And waited some more. And then some more.

Finally, as Nevaeh's heart started to beat faster in her chest, she finally heard a voice from round the corner. At first, Nevaeh peered upwards, as if she could peek over the darkness. But then she heard another voice, muffled by the wind and rain, and she shot straight back down, nervous-face back on, as she stared over her shoulder and met the worried eyes of Delora.

Her ally, without saying anything, rose a finger and placed it over her lips.

Nevaeh nodded and the two of them stood, side by side, as Andryn appeared from out of nowhere, with none other than… _Romina Charette?!_

"Guys!"

Andryn beamed the moment she saw Nevaeh and Delora stood in front of her. Unlike Andryn however, whose smile seemed to split her entire face in half, the two of them were torn between running away from an impending attack, or diving in on defensive mode and protecting their oblivious friend from this… newcomer.

Because this newcomer was a Career. Nevaeh could feel her heart lodged in her throat. This wasn't good. It couldn't be good. Nothing was good anymore, not ever, never ever.

"Oh," Andryn smiled, giggling. "This is Romina."

When she was gestured to, the girl from Four slowly appeared from the shadows. At a first glance, neither Nevaeh nor Delora could see anything wrong with her. But Delora wasn't in this to miss even the most subtle of details. A keen, observant eye was one of the tricks needed in here.

Romina's hair seemed dishevelled, not just from the rain, but from being pulled and twisted. Her fingers tapped nervously by her side. Her bottom lip was practically in tatters, blood welling up from where she'd gnawed relentlessly, trying to pour her feelings into outward action.

Delora placed a protective hand on Nevaeh's shoulder. For all she knew, this girl had killed Amaya or Audria, or maybe even both.

A brief moment of anger blossomed inside her heart, directed at Andryn, naïve Andryn, optimistic Andryn, Andryn the all-inclusive girl who couldn't see a threat even with a knife pressed to her throat. But Delora shook that thought away and met Romina's eyes.

"What are you doing here?"

She seemed hesitant to answer. But one look at the girl from Twelve told her if she didn't, then something bad might happen. "I bumped into Andryn. She said she was scouting, on the look-out, or whatever… I… we talked, during training. She mentioned…" Romina's voice faltered. Something was really wrong with her.

Nevaeh could see it as well. Plainly obvious, right in front of them. Andryn had invited a bomb waiting to explode right to their doorstep and she still didn't seem to understand the problem. Nevaeh would always have her back. But Delora, even though she tried to hammer in her securities, piece them together, be the right mesh of leader and friend, couldn't look at Romina and feel anything but contempt over what was now happening right in front of her eyes.

"Back in training me and Romina talked," Andryn continued for Romina, whose eyes were now on the mud, shiny and distracted, tears building up around her eyelashes. "I didn't even realise who I'd decided to say hey to, but after speaking, well I offered her a place here. She said no, obviously. But… well she's all alone. She's all alone and I think – no I know, I know that she belongs here. With us."

Nevaeh smiled. She didn't trust Romina. But she trusted Andryn. If she thought this was a good idea, then maybe…

Delora, however, frowned and stared once more at the Career. "How come you're alone then? You were with the Careers. I know you were."

Andryn opened her mouth to answer for Romina. One look from the girl in question, however, and she swallowed down her words and let her respond instead.

"I was with the Careers. All six of us. It wasn't perfect, it's never been perfect, but we were at least trying. After the bloodbath, we organized ourselves, made plans, laid the foundation for our… for what was to come," Romina looked up and met Delora's narrowed eyes. She flinched and gazed back down at the mud. "But last night… last night all I could think about, looking around at my allies, was what… what we'd done. What they'd done. Who we were and what we were prepared to do. I couldn't… I couldn't stay."

Andryn placed a hand on her shoulder. "It's alright, Romina. We're all friends here."

Delora had half a mind to cut that sentiment off root and stem. However, for the sake of Andryn's smile, perhaps the only genuine smile she might ever see again, Delora kept quiet and let Romina speak.

"I decided to leave. I remembered Andryn. She was so kind to me then. She reminded me to believe in myself and hope that maybe, with some luck, I might make it out of this place I happily decided to enter. But…" Romina's breath hitched, a sob rattled its way out from her throat, and she trembled on the spot. "…Diantha… she… she…"

"What?" Delora asked, frozen on the spot. "What did Diantha do?"

"She… tried to stop me… she wouldn't… oh god, oh god, she wouldn't…"

"You…" Delora looked at the girl from Four, all tears and ugly sobs, shaking in the mud like a leaf, so broken, so fractured, and then at Andryn, doing her best to comfort her.

She knew, right here, right now, that Romina couldn't stay.

And yet they didn't see. _Why can't they see?!_

"I killed her," Romina finished, her voice strained with the agonized noises piercing the tense silence around them. "I killed my ally. I didn't mean to… I didn't…"

She fell to the ground. Andryn had her in an embrace before anyone could say anything else. As the two of them exchanged soft words and tears, Delora looked down at Nevaeh, who stared back up at her.

"She can't stay," Delora whispered. "She's a Career. She killed one of them. She's already betrayed one ally, what's going to stop her from doing the same to us?"

Nevaeh blinked, frowning. "Maybe… maybe you're just being too… too cautious. M-Maybe she really does regret it."

"Maybe is still a maybe. It's not certain. I can't wager our lives on a maybe."

Nevaeh looked over at Andryn and Romina, and then back up at Delora. For a second, the girl from Twelve hoped that she would see sense, that she wouldn't let kindness get in the way of what had to be done in this Arena.

Delora was finding that balance. Between an eighteen year old girl, helping her friends, to being a leader of an alliance stuck in a blood-sport, within an Arena where kids had to kill kids. The burden was so heavy, so painful, but she was carrying it because Andryn and Nevaeh couldn't.

However, the girl from Five did nothing but shake her head, staring out at the two huddled up in the mud. "I'm sorry…" And then she ran to them, bending down to their level, and wrapping herself up in their bubble of comfort and naivety.

From metres away, standing in the mud, Delora watched the three of them. Two of her friends and a Career. A murderer.

If Delora wanted out of here, she would have to become one soon enough. But that was soon enough. She knew herself, she knew that when it came down to it, she wouldn't kill because she wanted to, she would kill because she had to.

Romina… Romina could be anyone. Her motivations were unknown. Those tears could be nothing but a way of coaxing Delora's gullible allies into a false sense of security.

And all Delora could do was watch, because finding the balance between tribute and teenager meant she still had to make sacrifices, she still had to do things for the wellbeing of two people she cared about. If she turned away Romina, Andryn might never forgive her. Nevaeh might never be able to meet her eye.

She wouldn't be able to cope with that. The ultimate failure.

But the one thing that struck Delora in the heart more than anything, some deep, untested emotion that roiled around inside of her, as she watched them all, was the silent sensation of jealousy.

They were there hugging, bonding, just like Audria and Nevaeh had been, and just like Andryn had been with everyone else.

And it was always Delora, on the outside, always on the outside looking in and never really feeling a part of what she had created. She wanted what was best for them. She wanted them to be happy.

Yet it was always her on the sidelines.

She never believed she was valued as anything but a resource, a tool, a way out of something.

And soon enough, with enough pressure, those inherent insecurities might one day overpower her. They might become too much to handle, too much to bear.

Delora was scared.

Not just of Romina, but of herself.

Comfort, smiles, security… they were all lies. This was where the Games really began. Right here, right now, with an ex-Career, two of her allies embracing her, and Delora standing alone in the mud.

This was where it all fell apart.

* * *

**Short note this chapter (I know, that's different for me XD). First, I thought what the heck and put a poll on my profile. It's just a bit of fun, nothing that will have an impact, so go over there and vote! (please bear in mind the keyword is **_**think**_ **not want.) Also, if with this chapter the reviews reach 300, I just want to thank everyone for their support, it's always fun to reach a new hundred mark! And if it doesn't, still, it means a great deal to have you all reading and reviewing, so thank you!**

**Oh, and yeah some chapters will have like over seven or eight scenes. Some will only have four or five. Really depends what I need to show :)**


	22. Endings

**Chapter Twenty-Two.**

* * *

**A/N: **Please don't hate me. Explanation at the bottom. Right now, enjoy this long af chapter (hopefully!).

Oh wait, one thing, can I make a request that people… read through from the beginning. I know it's tempting to find where your tribute placed, or who won, but I think for the full effect it really helps if you read from the start. Of course I can't force you, but… do it for me :*

* * *

**The Games.**

* * *

**Day Two, Part Two.**

* * *

It was still only the second day, one day after the bloodbath, and three of the Careers had already left the pack. All the girls. Diantha dead, Romina her killer, and Riena the hypocritical leader. It was hard for Uriah to understand why she'd done it, hard for Theon to work out her motives, but leading this new pack, Alston related completely to Riena's reasoning behind her abandonment.

They'd never been the closest pack. And Riena had worked that out, she'd seen the atmosphere for what it was, predicted the future, and taken it upon herself to be the first to actually have the balls to run away before it cost her her life. Alston relished his new control however, and with Uriah by his side, he practically felt like with the right push, things might fall into place the _right _way.

Theon, however, didn't feel such a thing. He looked at Uriah and Alston and remembered the way they'd spent so much time during training, they'd forsaken the others. He thought back on his own time, and how he'd always been the extra on the sidelines. The one no one wanted to be around, and yet accepted because maybe they saw something pitiful in Theon's eyes that craved affection. But this time it wasn't like that.

He was the third wheel and he had to get out.

Unfortunately for him, it didn't go as smoothly as Riena's departure. When he tried to leave, Alston's intuitive nature, the fact he had pretty much anticipated such a move, left his chilled, laid-back voice, to drift through the air and startle Theon as he turned around. A fight ensued. Theon panicked and tried to escape, whilst Alston simply smiled, and side by side with a willing Uriah, who was trying to be loyal to someone he considered a friend, joined him as they advanced on Theon.

The three Career males fought. Theon's cheek was sliced open. Alston staggered backwards into Uriah, knocking the boy from Two over into the mud. Because of the size of the trenches, it was easier for Theon to hold them back one by one, rather than deal with them both together. He used that to his advantage, managed to avoid being impaled into the wall, and turned the corner and fled.

Alston raised a hand to stop Uriah. They would let him go. The Careers had completely failed this year. But that didn't mean one couldn't still win. The question was who.

As Theon ran, he decided on one thing. All his life he'd messed up everything by pushing people away, teasing them, hurting them, because he wasn't able to find the connection he so wanted and accept it. In this Arena, the one person out there that had reminded him so much of his mistakes growing up was Romina. This was his redemption path. He would find her. Apologise. Help her. Maybe not guide her to victory, inherently Theon was as selfish as everyone else pretended they weren't, but still… there had to be something for him to do.

This was how he said sorry to the world.

Somewhere far across the other side of the Arena, Cade was doing his best to keep himself calm, focused, and ready for what was around each and every corner. He took it ten seconds at a time. If he could count to ten, deal with his situation, keep himself from panicking, then another ten seconds would start and he would repeat it over and over.

As he'd left Petra he'd come across a booby trap; gunfire spitting out from hidden components in the wall if certain metal plates in the ground were stood on. The moment he turned the corner and his eyes fell on Phris, the brute from Ten who had chased him in the bloodbath, he realised maybe he could use it to his advantage.

"You wanna play?" Cade bounced on the heels of his feet. He winked. "Let's play."

Phris knew he couldn't let this boy slip through his grasp. He wouldn't be forgiving. He wouldn't allow him to survive like he had done to Gwilym. As he gave chase, he had no idea this little weasel knew exactly where he was going, and how he was thinking.

Pure conviction to survive drove the two of them onwards. Until the gunfire trap was triggered, and a hail of bullets tore into Phris' shoulder as he threw himself sideways. With blood pounding in his ears, he sprinted after Cade. The boy from Six panicked, startled, and tried to climb his way up the trench wall.

Only the Gamemakers refused to make this easy to escape. More bullets shot out from somewhere in the air above the trenches. Phris was cut off from Cade, forced to flee from the onslaught, and Cade's leg and right shoulder were torn into, left bloody and in tatters as he fell back into the trench, the floor beneath his feet gave way, and he fell, fell, _fell, _into whatever lay beneath the Arena.

As the day slowly dwindled to a halt, the torrential rain only worsening, Barnaby continued to follow obediently behind Arick and Zeara, transfixed onto their every whim, yet with his own demons haunting him. It was his fault Travis was dead. And if things went the way he hoped they did – _hope… _maybe that wasn't the right word – then Arick and Zeara would protect a weak-willed, twig of a thirteen year old boy until he had to… kill them.

Arick was taking charge. Leading the fight. This was what he had to do as a rebel, so in the Arena, he had to play the part of the tribute. It was two sides of the same coin clashing, and yet as much as he doubted himself, he had Zeara as a constant support, perseverant by his side. She had her own qualms, her own fears, her own dedication to surviving conflicting against her determination to see an end to the Capitol.

But for now, each of them kept at bay their inner worries, and together, as a pack of rabid dogs, the first mutts of the Games to be revealed, attacked them, they came to each other's aid and held them off. Zeara was left with the worst of the injuries; a gash in her thigh slowing her down, but the mutts retreated, leaving Arick and his friends to fight another day.

At the same time, Delora's own doubts about Romina's intentions continued to contaminate her ability to lead her alliance functionally and with purpose. On a scouting mission, the girl from Four crossed paths with the boy from Twelve. Gwilym, senses alert, kicked into action, partly with fear that he had found a Career, and partly out of self-preservation.

Only when Romina ran away after a brief scuffle, did Gwilym finally come across Delora. The two embraced, then pulled apart, blushing as another member was added to the alliance. Nevaeh and Andryn watched on with smiles. Romina glanced at the pair from Twelve, nervous, anxious, and above all: scared.

Finally, Diantha's face faded into the sky as Petra, Clytie and Emigdio fell asleep, tucked up into their makeshift shelter. Petra couldn't help but worry for Cade, even when Emigdio promised her he was a tough little one. On the inside, he felt guilty that he was almost glad the young boy had left. It meant he only had to worry about two people he'd already promised to protect.

Clytie had spent the day tinkering with the mines. The Gamemakers had been generous though, and with the promise of action, they had taken some of her sponsor money and supplied her with instruction on how to activate them. With a little extra work, Clytie managed to keep the lights off even with the mines still operational.

Emigdio had watched Clytie lay her trap with a furrowed brow, fear in his chest. She wasn't the same Clytie that he'd allied with. She still smiled. She still cared. But she'd already hardened. Killing Fira had opened her eyes to what had to be done, and the whole cheerful outer shell made it even harder for him to cope, watching her crack as her eyes fluttered shut and Emigdio slowly rose from his sleeping bag.

What Emigdio didn't know, however, was that Petra was also awake. She didn't follow, but when Emigdio returned, biting his lip, eyes glancing down at Clytie nervously, she knew what he had done. The mine trap was deactivated. They wouldn't be able to lure a tribute into the explosions and kill them.

It was weakness, Emigdio understood that. And yet he wasn't ready yet to forsake his morals for… _this. _Protecting Petra and Clytie was one thing he was ready for, but this was something else. And Petra knew that. She didn't know what to do. Who to choose. Clytie knew what had to be done, she'd lost all her mercy, and she'd killed. But physically, Emigdio was the strongest, his protective nature over Petra would oust any sense of self-preservation he might have had.

As the day came to an end, Petra was torn. Clytie or Emigdio. Who would she choose?

* * *

**Day Three.**

* * *

With most of the tributes still asleep, Barnaby woke up when something knocked into his shoulder. He blinked and held back a yawn as he stared down at the sponsor gift.

_For me…? _Confusion kept him from opening the canister straight away. Of all the tributes to sponsor, why had someone chosen him? He looked around. Arick and Zeara were still fast asleep, oblivious, innocent, and before they woke up, locked in a state of bliss he envied them of.

When he opened it, a small blade fell from the inside. It barely made a noise as it clattered to the ground. He read the note that accompanied it and froze. _They know. The Capitol isn't stupid. They want a show, they want him dead, and the one to strike him down… well, can you imagine what they'd give that person? _It wasn't signed. Barnaby could hear his heart beating in his ears.

He tucked the blade into his sleeve. As his eyes closed shut again, he failed to notice that Zeara's were open. She didn't know what, but he was hiding something. And she was determined to find out exactly what that was.

With the trenches a complex system of twists and turns, Delora devised a plan to split the alliance up into two pairs for a couple of hours. If danger presented itself, a quick retreat would be the best course of action, but right now, they needed a map of where they were and what might be lurking round each corner.

She failed to mention, as she split her alliance up into two teams: Andryn and Nevaeh, Gwilym staying at their base, leaving Delora with Romina, that it was really so she could suss out this girl from Four.

She didn't trust her as far as she could throw her. It was a mutual feeling. Romina was more scared than anything. Delora hated the way Andryn and Nevaeh seemed to fawn over her. Why couldn't she have that? She had their best interests at heart and yet they almost looked at her with silent contempt, no matter what she did, or what she said.

"Do you know how the others are?" Delora asked.

"Who?"

Delora's hand twitched. She could kill her. She didn't want to. Of course she didn't. But would it be easier… would it be better to halt her paranoia, cut it root and stem before Romina's presence made her go insane…?

"The Careers."

Romina had no answer for that. She didn't know, she had no idea, and no matter what Delora thought of her, she really did just want a normal alliance, a normal friendship, a normal everything until she no longer had her life.

The alliance regrouped an hour later. It would happen soon, Delora was sure of it. Everything would come crashing down.

Midday arrived and Cade found himself struggling through the dark, cavernous area underneath the trenches. The only light he had was the flashlight that he'd luckily had with him in a backpack. If he hadn't have snagged something back at the Cornucopia… well… he shivered at the thought.

The pain was killing him. Maybe even literally. As he continued to walk, he found himself being led upwards, a staircase of stone weaving left and right until it came to an open passage underneath a new tunnel system.

That was when he realised where he was. The Gamemakers had cleared out all the caved in bits of rock and earth. The light at the very end… the distant sound of rain… this was where they'd all started.

Hope blossomed in his heart. The Careers could be in the Cornucopia, but even then, he needed medicine and bandages for his injuries. Maybe he could trick them somehow. He was awfully good at distracting people for his own benefit. As he finally made it to the minefield, he was overjoyed to find that it was abandoned; the Cornucopia full to the brim with supplies and no one to protect them.

He found the medicine after rummaging through several crates. He cheered out loud, smiling, even crying. These Games were impossibly difficult. He'd lost Hale. He'd abandoned Petra. He was all alone because, maybe, he needed to rise to the challenge to make himself believe he was more than just another twelve year old.

He was Cade Grayson, and he could do anything.

Anything!

But then he heard it: barking.

**17****th****: Cade Grayson, District Six Male.**

The dogs that had attacked Arick, Zeara and Barnaby needed a place to go. And here it was. They surrounded Cade, shattering his moment of joy and self-acceptance, leaving him rooted to the ground in absolute, overwhelming terror.

He tried to run. And with his quick legs and agility, he almost made it free. His knife was out and he slashed at a mutt that made its way too close to him. Blood splattered out across his face but he didn't react, he simply gritted his teeth and continued onwards.

But fighting and fleeing surrounded by mutts was one thing; doing it in the middle of a minefield was something else entirely.

He barely had a second to react when a mutt barrelled into his side and sent him flying. He saw Hale. He saw Petra. And then he saw his parents.

And then his body connected with a mine, and darkness consumed him.

* * *

The other tributes barely reacted at the sound of a cannon. Some held their sadness at bay over the death of another tribute. Some, like Clytie, tried to smile for her alliance, and keep down how… helpful it was. Someone was dead. It was dreadful. It was the worst thing. But as long as others kept dying and they kept surviving, then they were one step closer. One step closer to the end.

She had those thoughts running through her head when she decided to set off to enact her first trap these Games. Emigdio had barely said a word. She noticed how Petra continued to stare at him, before glancing at the ground. They weren't adapting, not the right way at least. It made Clytie nervous, and quite frightened for her own sanity that she was the one taking control, but if it meant she got to protect her friends and protect herself that little bit longer then she'd continue to do so.

Finally they came to a crossroads in the trenches. Clytie gave Emigdio a thumbs-up, and before he could let her know what he'd done, before he could gather up the courage to admit his weakness, she was off, splitting from her allies at the first sight of a lonesome tribute.

Clytie barely had time to recognise who it was before the other girl gave chase. Riena Ledwell, on her search for Romina, saw a flash of red hair and Career instinct kicked in. She didn't want to hurt Clytie, of course not. But this was the Games and already they'd made her far too paranoid for her liking.

Emigdio and Petra made their way back to the mine-trap in silence. However, before they could sort out the mess that had become of it, Clytie ran straight towards them, across from the other side, with a Career chasing after her.

"CLYTIE… WAIT!" Petra shouted out, before Emigdio could voice the same warning.

Clytie dodged the mines, and when Riena turned the corner, she barely had a second to stop herself before her foot connected with one.

Clytie was well out of reach… but nothing happened. She blinked down at the mines, glanced up fearfully at the sight of Riena staring, confused at the explosives by her feet, and then the Careers' brow furrowed, and she drove onwards straight for Clytie.

That was when Emigdio's protective nature finally kicked in. The trap had failed but before Riena could kill his friend, he grabbed her by the shoulders, hissed when she pulled an arrow free and sliced open his cheek, and smashed her into the trench wall.

Riena was left breathless and tired in front of a three-person alliance. Clytie was shocked, staring at Emigdio. Petra didn't know what to do. But in the face of a threat, Emigdio had finally stepped up and moved an inch in her direction.

Riena swallowed a lump in her throat and shook her head, not willing to take the risk. As she quickly fled the scene and Cade's face appeared in the sky, she pretended not to hear the sob coming from behind her, Petra falling to her knees in shock, and onwards the Career went.

The day ended with another sponsor gift, falling into Riena's hands. This time a map of the trenches, with an '_x' _somewhere not too far from where she currently was.

Romina's location.

* * *

**Day Four.**

* * *

Alston and Uriah were getting agitated. The two wanted something, _anything. _A pack of vulture mutts swarming down from the sky, tearing at their sleeves had barely been anything to fulfil either boy's need for a challenge.

Alston had enjoyed the dynamic between the Careers when they were simply sat down because there were people to watch, moods to assess, and the potential explosion waiting to happen if he pushed Uriah in the right direction.

Now that had all failed. Uriah simply wanted to prove to himself more than anyone that he had what it took to win. That's all he wanted. For people to see who he was the way he did. And so far the Arena had given them nothing.

If something didn't happen outside their alliance, it was only a matter of time before something happened within.

Theon was still trying to find Romina. He'd also been given the same map Riena had. Unbeknownst to anyone else, of course, but all paths seemed to converge onto their alliance.

All the boy from Four wanted to do was be a better person. He was a tribute, of course. And he wanted to win, which meant he'd kill. It wasn't that sort of better. Not the moral sort of better. The one where he got to kid himself that he was a hero.

_No. _He just wanted to do something as a way of apologising. And finding Romina seemed the only way he could do that.

With the first half of the fourth day coming to a silent, peaceful close, Theon finally saw movement up ahead. The sound of a nervous footstep splashing into a puddle formed by the rain. And then, from round the corner, he saw her.

Nevaeh interpreted Theon's heavy breathing as terrifying, vibrating splotches of black in front of her eyes. And then when she gazed down at the sword in his hand, her whole world seemed to spin around, upside down.

Delora had only sent her out quickly to find the supplies she'd dropped yesterday on her trek with Andryn. A simple mistake, and they were round a few corners… so close… _scream for them, Nevaeh. SCREAM!_

Theon had no way of knowing the girl he was searching for was so close. The map was forgotten. All traces of it gone from his mind as he stared down at this small, weak looking tribute.

She barely made it a step backwards before he was on her. She finally found her voice when she screamed in terror, then pain, when she lashed out and kicked the sword from his grasp.

As it clattered away, he knew what he had to do. She was in the way of him finding Romina. They all were. And he was sorry, so very sorry, but that didn't stop him from smashing her sideways into the trench wall, silencing her screams, and then doing it over and over, head first, until her skull was a pulpy mess and her cannon shattered the sky.

**16****th****: Nevaeh Blume, District Five Female.**

The colours had once been her escape from the world. But as Theon had attacked her, they'd been nothing but agonizing bursts of hot, fiery red. And then when her eyes had closed, her last breath rattling out from her longs, they vanished completely.

She was all alone.

* * *

Theon fell down by Nevaeh's dead body, and stared into the mud. He would find his feet soon. But right now… he didn't know what to do. So all he did was stay still. And for the time being, that was all he needed.

The cannon had startled the remaining four members of their alliance. Delora stopped Andryn from running out after Nevaeh just in case. She glared over at Romina, narrowing her eyes, before tears threatened to fall.

Maybe Nevaeh wasn't dead. Maybe it was just awful coincidence that a cannon had been heard at the same time Nevaeh had left to go get her backpack. And it was her fault… her fault if she was dead. She'd told her to go get the backpack.

She was the reason she was dead, and yet it was easier to blame Romina.

Because otherwise, she was the real monster.

**15****th****: Romina Charette, District Four Female.**

Gwilym looked at Delora. He then looked at Andryn. And then finally at Romina.

Before anyone could say or do a single thing, Gwilym's knife slipped into Romina's back and into her heart. Her death was quick. Her entire body froze, and with one last breath, her legs gave way and she collapsed into the mud.

Andryn screamed. Delora only stared between Gwilym and Romina's dead body. One second she was there, the next… gone.

"You would have attacked her," Gwilym said. "You would have attacked her, and she might have killed you. Or maybe you would have killed her… and then what?" He took a step in Delora's direction. She winced and moved backwards. "I had to make the decision between you and her. And I chose you."

"Nevaeh might not even be dead…" Andryn whimpered.

Gwilym and Delora only looked at her. All that needed to be said was exchanged in that look. She was dead. And now Romina was too.

Andryn realised at that moment it was too unsafe to stay. Everything had come crashing down in the blink of an eye. Delora saw her start to move away and caught on almost instantly.

She'd failed them all. Audria, Amaya, Nevaeh… she wouldn't fail Andryn. She couldn't fail Andryn. She tried to make her see. She tripped over her words, she practically reached a pitch that made it impossible to understand what she was saying.

All she'd wanted to be was a good friend and a good leader. Both. The best of two things that were needed in the Games.

Andryn sprinted forwards, away from the sound of approaching footsteps, and Delora lashed out, slapping Andryn round the face and sending her toppling sideways.

The girl from Three blinked, shocked, and screamed again, this time her tone laced with anger, as well as total fear and sorrow over what had happened. Before either could do anything, she lashed out at the nearest person to her, knife first, blade out.

She wanted to escape. She wanted… she wanted everything back… she wanted her friends…

* * *

**14****th****: Gwilym Collier, District Twelve Male.**

Andryn's knife found Gwilym's throat. Delora could do nothing but watch as her District partner choked on his own blood, bringing his hands to try to claw away at the wound, as if he could maybe save himself.

She started to cry, hot tears sliding down her cheeks, as she fell to her knees at the same time Gwilym did. Delora saw Andryn disappear. And then she watched as Gwilym's chest came to a halt.

He was dead. But she wasn't alone.

At that exact moment, from three different locations, as if nothing else could have been better planned or better executed, Delora watched as Riena Ledwell, Theon Devalera, and Phris Cantle arrived on the spot.

Theon was covered in blood. Delora didn't need telling whose it was. Phris had also been given a map for a different purpose. He hadn't been told who it was, only that if he followed it, did what he had decided to do, then he'd be one step closer to winning.

He'd resigned himself to killing without mercy. So here he was.

For a moment, no one knew what to do. Riena looked at Theon, Theon looked at Riena, and the two bowed their heads, remembering what had once been.

It was when Delora stood up, on shaky legs, holding out her sword, her cheeks flushed red and stained with tears that still fell from her eyes, did Phris start to walk forwards.

She'd failed them all, but she wouldn't fail herself. She refused to die.

* * *

**13****th****: Phris Cantle, District Ten Male.**

Theon and Riena were still frozen where they stood when Phris met Delora's blade. The two weren't Careers. They had no training. But they were two of the strongest from the outer Districts, two tributes now with nothing to lose, and so much to gain.

They had to protect their lives. And to do so, the other had to die.

However it was Gwilym by Delora's feet that caused the reaction in them both. Delora had always been close enough with him, respected him, and letting him in, accepting him, becoming his friend, and watching him kill Romina to save her and then get killed by Andryn… she used that as fuel to the fire. Fuel to survive.

Phris hadn't known Gwilym for very long. But at the sight of his body, and the fact that he'd tried too hard to detach himself, a stark opposite to Delora's decision to make a large group of friends, was what caused him to freeze, whereas Delora moved with so much more conviction.

He looked into Gwilym's dead, lifeless eyes and barely saw Delora's sword slash sideways.

His head left his shoulders, and down his body went, right by the boy from Twelve. A boy he called a friend, even without having to say it, or having the courage to believe it.

* * *

**12****th****: Riena Ledwell, District One Female.**

Theon had forgotten about Riena when he found Romina, not too far away from where Phris had just been killed. At the sight of her, his entire body seemed to shudder, as if the ground below him was crumbling apart.

It took every ounce of his being to take a deep breath and not fall to the down. She'd hated him. Or at least disliked him. And it wasn't like he'd made much effort. But this… the Careers had fallen apart, he had been all alone, and he'd thought maybe, just maybe, there was some way out of this constant self-contained confliction that ravaged his head.

But there wasn't. Not in this Arena. It was only death upon more death. And the only way out was to win. The only way to redemption was… to kill.

_Twisted… but…_

Delora had gone. One sight of two Careers, the dead bodies around her, and she'd fled. Riena looked at Theon and smiled sadly, eyes flitting between the way out and the way forwards.

"Look where we've come…"

Theon chuckled. He had tears in his eyes. And yet for once he didn't wipe them away. He didn't care what he looked like. "I want to blame myself, but…"

"Don't. It's no one's fault. These are the Games. We do what we have to do."

"Push you all away?"

"No one pushed anyone away, Theon," Riena said, pulling out her bow. "We're Careers. We simply act on the spot. I tried the thinking path and look where it got me."

"Riena?"

She drew an arrow free. "Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

She shot at him with lightning speed. Theon had anticipated it and dived sideways, out of the way, and charged towards her. He brought her onto her back in an instant. Every camera was on the two of them. Theon with his determination to redeem himself outside the Arena, apologize by living his life back in Four, helping others… doing things that old Theon never would have done.

And Riena, she just didn't want to die. A simple motivation. But maybe it was strong enough. Or might have been strong enough, if not for Theon being her opponent.

The two rolled around in the mud, crying, red-faced and angry that they had to do this. After a few more punches, a few more blows, and Riena using the wound in Theon's shoulder way back from the bloodbath to her advantage, Theon finally grabbed a fistful of her hair and slammed her head back into the ground.

Riena cried out. Theon sobbed over an apology, found a knife, and slit her throat. It was quick. Messy, but quick.

And then he was by himself.

* * *

**Day Five.**

* * *

Clytie didn't understand why Emigdio had jeopardized their alliance because he couldn't handle the idea of using the mines against someone. Or she did understand, but didn't want to.

With the fifth day coming to a start, she finally confronted him. He had nothing to say. Not at first. But when Petra woke up and stood by Clytie's side, he couldn't stop himself.

"You're going to get her killed – I mean… I mean us. You're going to get us killed."

Clytie looked at Petra, then at Emigdio. "It's the Games. There's always that risk. But I'm doing what has to be done to try and protect us. To save us."

"Only one can win, Clytie," Petra whispered.

The girl from Nine wanted to cry. These were her friends, and because she had decided to step up, it was as if they judged her. Only she didn't know what Petra was thinking. She didn't see the way she looked at Emigdio, saw a protector, but saw… saw someone that wouldn't win. Someone who wouldn't help her to the final.

She was using them, she hated herself, but she was being smart. And Clytie… Clytie was the right choice. She had to be.

"We're going."

"You're what?" Clytie said, blinking at Emigdio. "Just like that?"

He tried to explain. And when it came to leaving, his _we _became only _him _as Petra made up her mind and left him on the brink of tears, running away with no one but himself. Petra hated herself. Clytie hated herself. But Emigdio had made his choice. Now it was up to him to live with it.

Another tribute that was by themselves was Delora. And for the first time, rather than turn away from the fact she was a failure, she did her best to embrace it and move on. All her allies were now gone, or in the case of Andryn, had left and probably hated her.

And she did hate herself. She hated herself more than anything. But she'd always been aware that it would come down to her or them and she'd known, all along, that she would always make the difficult decisions and put herself first. She'd been stalling. That had been it. Stalling the inevitable.

Maybe it was a good thing they were… dead. Even when she cried, hating herself even more when she knew it was a blessing that she no longer had to care about anyone but herself, she persevered and carried on. Now she had to win. Win for them, and win for her. That was her way forwards.

A few hours went by with relative peace.

Emigdio had deluded himself into thinking Petra would automatically side with him. Because he still saw his daughter in her, and his little girl would never say _no. _He only wanted to help her. And he knew he wanted to help his real daughter as well. He had to return to do that. Which meant Petra had to… die.

He stayed near to Clytie and Petra, however. He refused to run too far away. But when the Gamemakers triggered a bullet trap that pushed him back towards them, and pushed Clytie in his direction too, with horror in his heart, he realised what they intended to happen.

Protector versus protector. Two very different ideals for what their youngest friend needed, but two people that still cared for one another. With gunfire behind Clytie, and gunfire behind Emigdio, there was nothing else to do but…

"They want this…" Petra sounded horrified, eyes widening.

"I'm so sorry Emigdio," Clytie had been sponsored a much larger knife than anything Emigdio had on his person. "You made your choice. And because of that, they've made theirs."

Emigdio had nothing to say. Clytie charged, he charged, and two friends, two former allies, clashed together as Petra watched, shocked and stunned to the ground as weapon met weapon and they forced themselves against each other.

When it seemed Emigdio was getting the upper-hand, Clytie seemed to turn it back on him. She knew what she was doing. She was using Emigdio's inability to hurt someone he cared about against him. She had killed. She had been ready to do the dirty work.

And yet… yet she didn't want this. She didn't want to make it so easy. He was strong, but when Clytie continued to attack him, he seemed to almost weaken. He seemed ready to… give up.

"I killed Fira," Clytie whispered. "I killed Fira!" And then she shouted.

Emigdio's face grew hot. He'd bottled it down for too long. Much too long. Clytie seemed almost… she seemed to almost relish the fact that she'd turned into a tribute so quickly. Petra had made the wrong decision to choose her. He would make her see that.

He charged at her. With all his brute force, Clytie had nothing to do but let herself quickly step backwards. Emigdio was too fast. Too strong. But Clytie didn't want to kill him without him trying to save himself. That was… that was too far gone. Too far from who Clytie was at heart.

But she'd made the wrong choice. Because by infuriating Emigdio, he lashed out, and in trying to defend herself, her sponsor gift was the only thing she could use. And she was a girl from Nine, with no training, and she was terrified that she was going to die.

Her aim was completely off.

**11****th****: Petra Peverett, District Seven Female.**

Emigdio immediately froze. Clytie did the same.

She half screamed, half sobbed when she realised her knife had struck Petra in the heart. She'd tried to squirm her way out of the fray, and by doing so, got caught right between the two of them.

Her small, frail body swayed sideways and into Emigdio's arms. Clytie tried to step forwards, but one look, one growl, one scream from Emigdio and she fled, crying, tears in her eyes as the boy from Eleven cradled their ally as her cannon shook the Arena and her eyes fluttered shut.

Petra was dead. And it was all Clytie's fault.

* * *

As the tributes dealt with the fact another one had fallen, Alston and Uriah had reached the point of complete and utter boredom.

Alston wanted to find Riena. Uriah wanted to find Theon. Alston wanted this. Uriah wanted that. They couldn't agree on one direct path, which meant they were going left, right, up, down with no particular goal in mind.

It was time.

When Alston and Uriah finally settled down, Alston realised that what he'd wanted from this alliance, what he'd wanted from his friendship with Uriah, wasn't going to happen.

The cards he'd prepared for this game had been torn from his hands and shredded into tiny pieces. He had nothing but himself now.

Which meant Uriah… even if he did care about him, was a liability. And in the Games, they had to be cut off.

Only Uriah wasn't an idiot. He knew what was coming. He knew exactly what was about to happen.

**10****th****: Alston Cornett, District One Male.**

Constantly stuck on the line that came between enemy and friend, Alston and Uriah had known all along they would clash eventually. Both were arrogant. Both were competitive. Yet Alston had always believed his intelligence would help push him above Uriah; would give him that extra boost.

One thing he hadn't accounted for however, was that Uriah had learnt a thing or two. Riena, Diantha, and especially Alston, they'd all taught him to take his head from out of his own ass and look at the world with a little bit more perspective.

And he had.

Something which Alston wasn't ready for.

Before the boy from One could even attempt to kill Uriah, the boy from Two had him pinned to the ground, kicked aside his weapon, and glared down at him.

"District Two didn't believe in me, my mother, my sister… no one," Uriah then smirked. "But I'm going to win this. And it doesn't matter no one ever believed in me. Because I did. And that is enough."

Alston could barely shout for help before Uriah's chain-scythe cut into his throat and left him dead in seconds. The boy from One went still, another Career down, and Uriah gathered up the supplies and readied himself for what was to come.

His victory. It had to be that.

* * *

The day finally came to an end. As the rest of the tributes adapted to night-time with their new circumstances, Arick, Zeara and Barnaby were the only real alliance properly left intact.

Zeara was worried. Arick was worried. But no one was feeling anything that came close to Barnaby.

He felt the knife in his sleeve, the tiny blade that sometimes made shallow cuts in his skin, reminding him that if he didn't do something soon, someone would take the chance away from him. He'd been planning all along to use Arick as a protector until the finale.

But if the Gamemakers would reward him for taking out a rebel…

He waited, wide awake, as his two allies slowly fell asleep. If he did this, there would be no turning back. His mind took a turn for the worst as he considered maybe killing Zeara too. But he wasn't that. He wasn't a monster. He didn't enjoy the thought.

He just wanted to live. He wanted to go home so badly… to see his family… to go back to school, live a life that had been boring, but alright. This was the only way.

Barnaby made up his mind and gave it another hour just in case. When he slowly stood upwards, his little knees knocking together in the wind and rain, he tried to make his footsteps as light as possible as he crept towards Arick.

He thought for a moment, as the breath hitched in his throat, that he would get away with it. He wasn't sure which way he wanted it to go. But Zeara seemed to make the decision for him. Her eyes snapped open and she yelled out loud, diving for him, knocking the knife from his hand and pinning him to the ground, glaring at him as tears started to slip from his eyes.

As she shouted and shouted, Barnaby couldn't get an explanation out. For a moment, he thought this was it. This was where it came to an end. And maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe he deserved it.

But another voice cut through the atmosphere; Arick's voice.

"Let him go."

Zeara and Barnaby were both shocked as Arick explained how he understood why Barnaby had done what he'd been prepared to do. The worst part was, in Zeara's eyes, as she struggled to control herself from lashing out at the boy that had tried to kill her friend, was that he… let him stay. He not only didn't seem to care, but he was… willing to keep Barnaby by his side.

As a parachute drifted to Arick's feet, Zeara stood by the side and didn't know what to do, or what to think.

She cared so much about Arick. All this time, her mind had been torn between dying to let him win so the Capitol could be torn down, or selfishly live so she didn't have to accept defeat and admit she was terrified.

But looking at who was maybe her best friend, a boy she practically loved, told her a different story. He embraced Barnaby, eyes shut, with Barnaby sobbing in his grasp.

This was no leader. No figurehead of the rebellion. Arick was just a teenage boy with a past too heavy on his shoulders that he didn't know what to do with. Even if she did die for him… he wouldn't fix this world.

With this realization settling into her gut, Arick finally opened the sponsor gift, and raised an eyebrow as a note fell into the palm of his hand.

His eyes gazed over the paper. Only a moment needed to pass for Zeara and Barnaby to realise something was wrong. Arick's face paled. His eyes widened. And the tremble in his entire body told Zeara everything she needed to know.

She snatched the note from his hand and read the words:

'_Kindra sends her regards.'_

* * *

**Day Six.**

* * *

The majority of the tributes were still reeling over past events. Some like Uriah were motivated to find the others, and some like Andryn had given in entirely to the flight concept. The more she ran, the more distance she put between her and the others.

The Gamemakers had a trick up their sleeve to spruce things up a bit. A drop of rain against skin had become a common occurrence in this Arena. In fact, each tribute was sure if they ever saw a sunny day again, it would feel alien.

But when the water slowly started to burn, they realised something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

Acidic rain fell from the clouds and drove the tributes to run around like headless chickens. It wasn't meant to kill anyone. Merely give things a good kick up the backside towards the end of the Games.

However, there was one group the Gamemakers weren't through toying with. A wannabe rebel leader who couldn't hold together a picnic, let alone a whole revolution. The boy that had been pushed in the right direction and failed; an embarrassment. And then the other girl. The one who didn't know what to do any longer.

Arick, Zeara and Barnaby, as they ran around in circles, trying to find some way of holding off the acid rain, heard the ravenous sounds that they were all too familiar with.

The dogs, ribs poking through matted fur, snarling, teeth bared, saliva dripping to the ground, appeared round a corner. They'd been violent before, but this was something different entirely. Something far deadlier.

"We can't take them…" Zeara breathed out, terrified.

Arick assessed the situation as quickly as he could and nodded. "LET'S GO!"

The three of them retreated. The mutts were starving, however. Fast. Powerful. And with the Gamemakers pulling the strings, there was no way they would all get out of this alive. No way they could stop the pack as they ran for their meal.

_Unless…_

**9****th****: Barnaby Miller, District Five Male.**

Arick had been stunned by the note from last night. Yet he'd refused to give up. And mere moments before that, after Barnaby had tried to kill him, Arick had… let him be. In fact, rather than simply push him away, something he probably didn't deserve anyway, Arick had decided to allow him to stay in their alliance.

Barnaby was a monster. He wasn't a boy trying to survive no matter what. He was a monster. Arick was… Arick deserved to live.

He wouldn't let them die.

Barnaby grabbed hold of Zeara's arm. She was still angry. So, so angry. But she turned to look at him.

"Don't let him see… get out…" Barnaby's lip was trembling, his knees knocking together, as his sweaty hand struggled to keep hold of his knife. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… but this is how I'll make it up to you."

Zeara wanted to say something. But her tears betrayed her and before Arick could see what was about to happen, she nodded and continued to sprint behind her oblivious District partner.

Barnaby closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and took a deep breath.

When he opened them, he saw ten muttations from the pits of hell advancing on him. And as his heart threatened to burst from his chest, and his courage threatened to fall to pieces, Barnaby managed one last smile.

_I deserve this. _

* * *

**Day Seven.**

* * *

Arick still didn't know how to cope with what Barnaby had done for him yesterday. The Gamemakers seemed content to leave the two of them alone to their grief. He had failed. Failed everything.

He was nothing. And this time, he wouldn't fight against it.

Theon had been the most resourceful tribute during yesterday's events. The acid rain had barely made a mark on his outfit. Using supplies, his quick-thinking, and his determination to see this through to the end, he'd used the trench walls themselves and the structures that held them together to fashion some kind of shelter.

For today, he made the decision to rest, recuperate, and tomorrow he would set out and hunt. Then he would get these Games over and done with.

One tribute that refused to wait for his opportunity to find the other tributes was Uriah. He figured if he was going to wrap this up, the sooner the better.

Luckily for him, rather than endlessly searching the trenches for the remaining tributes, the Gamemakers also agreed that it was best for some more action. It would soon be time for a Victor to be decided. And since Uriah seemed the only one willing to really start things up again, they manipulated the Arena, leading him straight onto…

Andryn heard his footsteps from a mile away. She was out of her shelter as quick as lightning, tearing it apart with her arms as she bolted forwards, forsaking proper direction for a will to survive another day. Her cheer had gone. Her smile. Her everything. She'd even killed.

Right now, all she wanted was her home. Maybe there she'd find herself again. But to do that, it meant getting away from Uriah.

Only he was a Career, with the Gamemakers support, and Andryn was a girl that had killed, but hidden. A girl who wasn't what they were looking for.

**8****th****: Andryn Vitalli, District Three Female.**

He remembered what it had been like during the bloodbath to kill.

This time, when the chain wrapped round Andryn's legs and brought her down to the mud with a screech, he made no fancy talk, no apology, nothing but a quick twitch of the lips downwards, and he stood over her.

"P-Please…" Andryn tried to move but Uriah held her in place with his boot.

"PLEASE!"

All she'd wanted to do since being forced from her life was retain who she was. Laugh. Smile. Be a good friend. And everything had fallen apart. It wasn't fair.

Her next plea for mercy was cut short. He'd done it before and he was prepared to do it again. Uriah silenced her with a slash across the throat and that was that.

Andryn was dead. Uriah was determined to find someone else. And the Games lost another player.

* * *

Later that same day, Clytie had barely moved from where she'd finally collapsed after running away from Petra and Emigdio.

She'd let the rain burn her. She'd let the tears fall down her cheeks. She'd let the entire gravity of who she'd become encase her to the point where she simply… she simply wanted to…

_No. _She didn't want to die. She didn't want to give up. Clytie wanted to fight on, live a little longer, and make it home so she could maybe become the girl that had left the District those two weeks ago. That was what she _wanted _to do.

Of course being able to actually do it was another challenge entirely.

Rather than find another tribute, lure into a trap, and accept the fact that she had to kill them, Clytie was the one that ended up being seen by someone else.

For a moment she both hoped and feared that it would be Emigdio. She knew he'd never forgive her for what she'd done. In trying to make it a fair fight, she'd pushed him into a state that she'd only tried to defend herself against.

She should have just… just… _died._

On the other end of the trench, Delora was thinking somewhere along the same lines. Clytie had to die. She didn't know her. She didn't know what she'd been through. Now with no allies, no friends, no nothing, she was just another tribute that had to be cut down.

Numbers, not humans. That was all it was. Victims, not people.

They all had to die.

**7****th****: Clytie Torrence, District Nine Female.**

And so Delora tried to do just that.

Clytie, finally, with her life flashing before her eyes, was spurred into action. She drove a foot out as Delora approached, way too close for her liking, and managed to trip her up.

Both girls had made alliances that they were close with. Both had been leaders. Both had tried to be friends and tributes that were willing to do what had to be done. And both had had to deal with allies that hadn't seen it from their perspective.

It was almost poetic in a way that it was these two fighting, one about to kill the other.

Clytie scrambled away, strangely calm actually, struggling to keep her feet on the ground as her pace quickened. Delora was even more determined, however. Whereas Clytie's actions were still weighing her down, Delora had dealt with insecurity and self-hatred all her life.

This was on a whole new level, but she was mentally stronger. And being mentally stronger, gave her that physical edge. An edge that was enough to bring her crashing into Clytie, tripping her up and sending her into the side of the trench wall.

Before the girl from Nine could do anything, Delora stabbed her in the chest and made it as quick as she could. Clytie's eyes slipped shut, now in peace, and as Delora heard heavy footsteps behind her, she ran away from the scene as quickly as she could.

She didn't see Emigdio reach Clytie's body. She didn't see the way his face went from total, unadulterated rage, to complete sorrow as he fell down and held her in his arms. He'd lost the two people he'd wanted to protect.

And he knew, he still knew, that if he wanted to protect the people that meant even more to him, they had to have died… but that didn't make it easier.

Nothing would ever make _this _easier.

* * *

**Day Eight.**

* * *

The eighth day of the Games was relatively peaceful.

Amongst the vast maze of trenches, Uriah, Theon and Delora were on the lookout for other tributes, and Emigdio sat with Clytie's dead body, refusing to move on just yet.

Just yet. As if the next hour he would, and then an hour passed, and he said _another hour_, on and on and on.

Arick, as he sat with Zeara under the downpour of rain, stared at the crumpled note in his hand. If Kindra was in fact dead, that meant his parents could be… everyone he'd come into contact with that knew of his mission could be. His… brother…

He couldn't think of a world where everyone he loved, even the people that had made him into this… toy... were dead. He wasn't sure he wanted to exist without people there to be by his side. He was a mistake. A nobody.

Arick was not a rebel. He wasn't anything.

Zeara looked at Arick, tearing up, crying, then trying to hold it together, only for it all to come crashing down.

She didn't know what to say, or do, or even think anymore. Barnaby was dead. And she knew, looking at this boy next to her, someone she cared about more than anyone in the world, except for her Father, that he was not the salvation this country was looking for.

Arick glanced down at the note. And then they met eyes, and Arick knew exactly what had to be done.

Zeara, at first, said nothing when he took out his knife. Her heart hammered in her ears, she wanted to hit it away, but she only watched with terrified curiosity as he turned to face her, smile from ear to ear, with tears in his eyes bringing out the beautiful brown shade that made Zeara's heart flutter.

She didn't see him that way. She didn't pretend he was anything else. But maybe, in another world, another time…

Only there wasn't such a thing. It was here and now. _Here and now. _And Arick had a knife.

He leant in, as if he was going to kiss her. She blushed when his lips moved closer for her ear, a strand of her hair tickling his cheek, but she was sure he wouldn't react to it.

"You need to kill me."

Zeara knew better than to pull away and shout. But she wanted to. She wanted to do so more than anything. However her desire to survive, the one thing that had been picking away at her ever since she'd met Arick, stopped her from doing so.

"I don't understand," she whispered back.

"Barnaby knew that if he killed me, they'd see him as less of a rebel accomplice, and more someone that simply wanted to survive. That's what they like in Victors. Someone that thinks small. Doesn't have a bigger picture in mind but the Games themselves."

"But…"

Arick shook his head, silencing her. "You've been in danger ever since you stepped in here, but it's not just you that's in trouble. Everyone you love. Or care about. Or even hate but know and don't want to die… they could by mere association with me. I realise that now. I'm not a hero. A saviour. My mere presence will bring destruction to anyone who comes into contact with me."

Zeara could hear him crying, yet she said nothing, letting him say the last thing he had to say. "I'm better off dead. And if you do it… I need you to do it. I want you to have a chance at winning. I want you to go home and have a life, and maybe one day, someone will come along that is better than me, that can rally the country, and then with you still alive… you'll get to live the life that was meant for me, but could never be mine."

She felt him slip the knife into her fingers. Zeara wanted to drop it. She wanted to let it go, fling him away, and run… run before she realised she had to do this… run before she realised… before she…

He kissed her on the cheek, pulled away, and before she could even think, the knife went into his ribs, up to the hilt, and he fell into her arms.

**6****th****: Arick Greige, District Eight Male.**

There would never have been a rebellion with Arick in control.

He'd known it. Zeara had known it. The Gamemakers had known it.

But he was now dead, Zeara had done it, and District Eight would forever be known as a place on par with Eleven that couldn't be trusted. The ramifications might live on for another decade, another fifty years, or maybe even another century.

But with his cannon in the sky, and Zeara's departure, there was one thing that everyone knew for certain, an absolute, something that couldn't ever be changed:

Arick Greige was dead.

* * *

**Day Nine.**

* * *

This was the final day of the Games.

With gunfire bursting out from the trench walls, spitting out from somewhere in the sky, and pitfalls in the flooring that threatened to engulf oblivious tributes entirely, the final five were pushed over the course of six hours back to the centre.

Uriah, from arrogant goofball, to a Career that refused to apologise for who he was, to someone who no longer needed to prove to the world that he was worthy. All he needed was his own self-belief. The world either cared or didn't care; it wasn't his problem.

Theon, a boy torn between refusing to be weak, refusing to accept someone's kindness, even though that was all he really craved, to a boy walking the path of redemption all the way back home, where he could make right the wrongs that had been left in his wake.

Zeara, against the world, with her little notebook, solitarily sitting on the bench, becoming best friends with a boy with the whole country weighing heavy on his shoulders, a girl that learnt to love, to care, to be a friend. A girl that learnt she could be weak and that it wasn't a bad thing.

Emigdio, a doting father, who formed an alliance with two people he knew he would protect through thick and thin. An alliance doomed to fail with his unwillingness to be a real tribute. He'd now lost the two of them. All he had left were his children, fuelling him on.

And finally Delora, a girl who constantly thought she was a nobody, who put that aside and tried to be a good friend to everyone. A girl who knew the costs of being in the Games, and had tried to find a balance between being a leader and a true companion. And now she was alone.

Uriah arrived at the Cornucopia first. He was the most willing to hunt, and in turn, the quickest to reach where he knew the Gamemakers intended him to be. It was strange being back here, but he had no time to dwell when Theon soon arrived after him.

With just the two of them next to the Cornucopia, mines still ready and waiting to be detonated, neither two wasted words, or wasted a second away from doing what had to be done.

Both were eager. Both were ready to see this to the end.

**5****th****: Uriah Valore, District Two Male.**

Theon parried Uriah's attack upwards and brought his fist out, catching him in the stomach. Doubled over, Uriah managed to twist out of reach and stop himself from being split shoulder to navel.

In retaliation, he managed to half wrap the chain round Theon's legs. He was a Career though. Much bigger. Stronger. His attempt at toppling him over didn't quite work. As the two Careers heard more movement, more tributes approaching, they paid the new arrivals no heed as they traded punches, rather than slashes with blades.

Theon almost tripped over. However he used the momentum forwards and brought his arm out, bringing Uriah down with him. Once in the mud, the two rolled around, nearly detonating a mine an inch or two from Theon's head.

Uriah wanted to win. Theon wanted to win. Both had their reasons, both had little to return to, but something to do once they got home.

When Uriah went to drive his fingers into Theon's eye sockets, the boy from Four brought his knee up into Uriah's stomach and threw him off from him.

At that second, he darted upwards and caught Uriah by the collar. One step back and Uriah would fall into a mine. Theon could feel Uriah's heartbeat, hear the fear in his ragged breathing. He didn't want to kill him. He didn't want to take another life.

But when he looked near to him, saw the ground was free of mines, he frowned and looked at Uriah, sadness in his eyes.

"No one will forget you. I promise."

He let go, Uriah fell backwards, and diving to the left, the explosion tore the boy from Two apart completely.

* * *

As the two Career boys had fought, Delora had arrived, soon followed by Emigdio who recognised her immediately as the girl who had killed Clytie. At the time, Emigdio had wanted to be the one to kill his former ally for what she'd done.

Now he only wanted her back. He wanted them both back.

Delora realised what he was about to do moments before he had the chance to do it. Her quick-thinking nature managed to keep her alive as he tried to slice her head from her shoulders. She wasn't as strong as Emigdio, and with an explosion that threatened to bring them both to the ground, she knew that if she gave him the chance, he'd easily overpower her.

So she had to be quick. And quick she was.

**4****th****: Emigdio Santiago, District Eleven Male.**

He saw his daughter. His son. His parents. His sister. His wife. And then Petra and Clytie.

He saw Fira.

He saw everyone he'd come into contact with.

And then he saw Delora, and before he could even attempt to cleave her in half, her lightning quick hands dodged the blows sent her way and brought the knife straight into his throat.

Each of the people he loved faded from view. All that was left was him. Him alone. The feeling of suffocating on his own blood, dying in the mud and pouring rain, with his killer already fleeing the scene.

He was alone.

And now he'd leave his family. They wouldn't have their father, his wife wouldn't have her husband. What kind of man was he? He could have… he could have won this. If he'd been willing to be the big bad wolf. The monster. The nightmare in the dark.

But he'd left it too late.

And now he paid the price.

* * *

The final three.

Theon, Zeara and Delora.

When Emigdio's cannon shattered the tense silence between the Career and the girl from Twelve, Zeara finally appeared, the same dogs that had hassled her the entire Games chasing from behind.

The moment she made it onto the minefield they gave up and scampered back into the Arena, never to be seen again. Their purpose was over.

Zeara had never had any contact with either of them. Theon a Career, and as far as she was aware, she had no idea what Delora might have done in this Arena. At first, she'd never even thought of her as a threat. Clearly she was.

All Delora could remember when she saw Theon was what he must have done to Nevaeh. It was obvious he'd killed her, the thing that had torn apart their alliance in a matter of minutes. The seed of doubt had been planted the moment Romina had appeared, but through Theon's actions, he'd been the water that had helped the flower to blossom.

And now, here they were.

"Ladies," Theon said.

Not with his usual swagger, or confidence, or sleazy charm. A simple statement. Almost a recognition of their talent. A sign of respect he had for them.

Zeara looked at Delora, Delora looked at Zeara, and though neither really knew anything about the other, they had one thing in common. They were outer-District girls forced into a game they'd never wanted to be a part of. A game that had killed their friends and made them do things that would, or already had changed them.

Theon had decided to be here.

The decision was easy.

Two versus one.

Now they were even.

**3****rd****: Theon Devalera, District Four Male.**

He'd known the second they'd made eye contact. And rather than feel angry at what they were doing, he felt silent admiration that they'd banded together to take him down.

Momentary pride that they thought of him as such a big threat, but that little blossom of old arrogance, the old Theon, was gone instantaneously. As much as he had no quarrel with either of them, this was the end, and he had a job to do.

He had to go home.

Zeara picked up a knife from the ground, and with limited experience through training during the Capitol, threw it at Theon. Bad aim. Or at least when he went to dodge it, that was what he'd believed. Bad aim. Nothing else behind it.

With him distracted, only two or three seconds before he gathered his senses back, Delora tried to ignore the horrible smell of charred Uriah, scattered through the grass, and dove straight for Theon, sword first.

It should have been easy. Theon was dealing with his own past, his own present, which would lead onto a new future. Delora was coping with the same thing. The two clashed, Theon almost disarmed the girl from Twelve, but Zeara was quick on the scene and cut open his side.

He bit down on his tongue and punched the girl from Eight square in the face. She staggered back, almost tripped into a mine, and instead fell into a pile of supply crates, cracking her head on the side and disappearing amongst the mass of wood.

Theon felt a pinprick of guilt, somewhere in his chest.

That was all Delora needed. Another second distraction, his eyes glanced sideways, and she slapped him across the cheek, caught him by surprise, and drove her sword up through his stomach and out through the top of his back.

Although his life faded in a second, for Theon it felt like a lifetime.

So many regrets. So many things he _should _have done, when he'd simply pushed, and pushed and pushed and made people hate him.

Now it was too late.

But maybe… maybe dying here, dying now, that was some kind of redemption. Some kind of apology. People would look at him, see a boy with the highest kill count, see a monster, but also… also see something behind that. Something in his eyes.

The real Theon.

The Theon he'd always wanted to be, yet never had the courage to accept.

* * *

She pulled the sword from his body, and without taking a moment to think, a moment to deal with how she felt, Delora marched straight over to the crates.

She just wanted it to be over. The quicker the better. Zeara had been… useful. But she wasn't a friend. She was what Delora's alliance had been all along, something Delora had pretended not to see. Or prolonged to accept. An asset. Someone she needed in the short run.

Zeara opened her eyes, groggy, a headache already pounding in her skull, but at exactly the right moment. She gasped out loud when she saw Delora's sword point coming straight for her face.

She scrambled sideways, toppling the crates over, and managed to dodge her fatal attack meant for her life.

Of course she should have known there wouldn't be a moment after Theon's death where she might have waited for Zeara to catch her breath. She almost felt angry. But then she remembered she would have done the same, she remembered where they were, how many were left, and what was about to happen.

Home. Home was so close, yet so very, very far away.

All she had to do was kill Delora. It sounded so simple. Yet it was maybe the hardest thing she would ever have to do. At least Arick had offered her the knife. Delora had her sword. She wouldn't go down easily.

With Delora eyeing Zeara up and down, trying to assess her next best move, Zeara held onto her knife, picked up a sword by her feet, and held on for dear life. She really had no idea what she was doing, and Delora probably had the brute force on a step above her, but through what she'd experienced, maybe she did have the advantage.

_What would a Victor do…? What do I have to do to win?_

Delora was a fast thinker. But Zeara could be too. Her eyes subtly flashed to Delora's position, then at a discarded piece of fruit by Zeara's own boot, and quickly, before the girl from Twelve could process what was happening, she threw it, arching it at an angle that collided with something just behind Delora.

It wasn't close enough to kill her, but when Emigdio's body was torn to shreds by the explosions, bits and pieces of him raining down from the sky, Zeara quickly charged the disorientated girl and slashed at her neck.

Delora wasn't ready to give up just yet. Not after finally accepting what had to be done, becoming the girl she hated about herself, and making it this far.

Their swords clashed, the sound of metal on metal ringing out, bitter to the ear, as Delora tried to swipe upwards and mess with Zeara's balance.

The girl from Twelve realised the ringing in her ears and the pain in her back were debilitating enough. She was technically physically stronger than Zeara, but now they were on the same level. Maybe she was even lower. That would be a problem. It _was _a problem.

Delora swept out her foot, catching Zeara by surprise. The girl from Eight gasped when her head connected with the mud. Delora kicked out and the tip of her toes smashed into Zeara's nose, bone shattering, and blood dousing outwards like a jet.

Zeara screamed, hot tears in her eyes, red pulsating inside her skull. But she didn't give up. Not when she thought of Travis, of Barnaby, and of Arick. Delora tried to bring her sword downwards, but Zeara grappled with Delora's legs, dodging the blow, trying to bring the girl down to her level.

Putting all her body weight into it, Delora finally fell, her sword miraculously still grasped in her hand as the two girls tried to push themselves back up into a standing position before the other.

As Zeara scrambled over Delora's legs, trying to use her as a way of gaining an advantage first, Delora viciously lashed out with her foot and hit her broken nose once more, bringing Zeara down with a pained, agonized scream.

The girl from Twelve clawed her way through the mud an inch away, then stood up. Zeara did the same in the other direction, and opposite one another, with swords out, one bloody-faced, the other with a missing ear that felt like a lifetime ago, they charged, ready to bring the Games to an end.

Ready to win, and one of them about to die.

**2****nd****: Zeara Kadnell, District Eight Female.**

Their swords met for the final time.

Zeara tried to gain the advantage. Delora did the same.

Both had a dead alliance, a dead group of friends acting as a joint motivation, and a curse that threatened to disintegrate their will to survive.

From two normal girls, one friendly, one not so friendly, to two tributes, dealing with the Games, dealing with death and pain and everything else, this was their final clash.

Their final moment.

Zeara continued to push on Delora's blade, trying the same thing, but to no avail.

Delora thought of the bodies around her. The charred bits of tributes, the blood, the gore, the bone, the everything that had become a part of the very earth.

This wasn't a fair game. This was a game of bad people willing to do bad things. Or good people who had to be bad. Or maybe good and bad had never existed. Maybe it was only people.

She spat.

One single act, something so simple, and Zeara's grip on her sword faltered, as she was blinded for a fraction of a second.

That was enough.

Delora exerted her muscles until she thought they would burst from her skin, her bones would crack, and she'd fall apart.

Zeara's sword slipped, Delora followed through with the movement, and the point of her blade went straight through Zeara's neck and out the other end.

This time Zeara spat, a bubble of blood as she tried to say something. Delora blinked away the red as she watched the girl before her very eyes fall to the ground, with her blade in her neck, dead before she could hit the mud.

Twenty-three were gone. The Games were over.

* * *

**1****st****: Delora Verone, District Twelve Female.**

No bad, no good.

She was just Delora.

Delora from District Twelve who had tried to be a friend, a tribute, and a leader for an alliance that had been doomed to fail since she'd introduced herself to Audria and Nevaeh.

Now it was her and her alone.

Not Delora the friend.

Not Delora the leader.

Not even Delora the tribute.

She was Delora the survivor.

Delora; Victor of the Seventieth Hunger Games.

* * *

**If you want the results of the Victor's poll, they're on my profile. And the blog will have the updated placements sooner or later!**

**Anyway…**

**Well, that's my first proper summary I've ever done. I loved it. I hated it. I'm not sure what I feel about it, all I know is that I had to do it, and that I don't regret my decision.**

**I've been on this website for over four years, and started writing about three years ago. I've completed SYOTS. I've failed SYOTS. I've started collabs, and though they never worked, I made some of my closest friends through making the decision to start them up and see where they took me.**

**And now I'm nineteen, I'm about to start university (I know I was last year, but stuff happened and well… yeah I'm about to restart after it didn't go to plan) and I've realised that after all this time, fanfiction just isn't the same to me anymore.**

**It will always mean a lot, but writing wise, I'm just not there anymore. I want a career that has something to do with writing. But that means starting my own original pieces, not this. Fanfiction was a great learning curve, I've genuinely improved from the shite I used to write, but I can't do it any longer.**

**I think it's important to stop when you know it's the right thing to do, and not carry on doing something you know isn't what you want to be doing anymore. I'm not leaving fanfiction. I'll still be reading. I'll still be submitting (somewhat). And I'll still be reviewing.**

**And who knows, maybe at some point I might write something, but it will never be another solo SYOT. I can't do those any longer. My main priority is now my own writing. **

**So yeah, don't take this as one of those goodbye messages because I'm still here, still checking fanfiction religiously, I just won't be doing **_**this **_**part any longer. The SYOT writing part. Who knows if I'll consider some sort of collab arrangement, you never know, but writing by myself takes up too much time and I need to be doing other things.**

**I'll say a big thank you to everyone that submitted to this story, read, reviewed, followed, favourited, whatever you did, it made this story possible and got me to this point.**

**A massive congratulations to Cloe and another thanks for submitting Delora. I went from honestly struggling so much with her first POV, to falling in love by the second, and seeing so much potential. She was amongst maybe three or four others that could have reached this point, but I know I've made the right decision!**

**What you read here is the plan I had before I decided on a summary. It hasn't been tailored to suit this kind of structure. The plotlines are just condensed versions of what you would have read in full had I carried on.**

**So yeah…**

**Although I'm still here and not going anywhere, in terms of writing my own SYOTs, I want to say a massive thank you to all of you. Three years and you helped bring me to this stage! I've made such good friends and met such lovely people, and over the three years though I might have felt like stopping a lot earlier than this, it's because of you I kept on going and you've honestly helped with my writing, and just helped in general, so thank you!**

**(I'm honestly not disappearing so I don't know why this sounds like a goodbye.)**

**Yeah. So no more SYOTs from moi. Maybe a collab if the opportunity is there and I have the time and dedication. But really, writing wise, I'm pretty sure I'm done. Reading, submitting, reviewing, PM'ing, whatever-ing, I'm there! Just this is no longer what I want to be doing.**

**Goodbye Hideaway, and thanks to everyone who actually got this far (fuck me this was a big chapter… I'm probably just talking to myself at this point.)**

**Bye!**

**(It wouldn't be a proper send off from Jake, if I wasn't being a review whore ;D This is my last chance, so hey! This was a long chapter, and I'd really appreciate it if whoever is reading this said something, long or short (preferably with something to do with the summary ;o) It would mean the world. Thanks!)**


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